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https://archive.org/details/parisoftoday01kauf 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY 


VIEW  ON  THE  BOULEVARD,  SAINT  MICHEL. 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  DANISH  OF 

RICHARD  KAUF.MANN 


BY 

MISS  OLGA  FLINCH 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

104  & 106  Fourth  Avenue 


Copyright,  1891,  by 

CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Preface, xiii 

PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. — Frame  and  Picture. 

I.  The  Two  River-banks, i 

II.  Chic  de  Vingtieme  Siecle,  - 14 

III.  Dancing  in  Paris, 20 

IV.  Modern  Parisian  Students,  ...  33 

V.  Working  Paris, 45 

VI.  Pasteur  in  his  Laboratory,  ...  56 

THE  PARIS  STREET. 

VII.  Caf£  and  Street  Life, 71 

VIII.  Cabs  and  Cabmen, 85 

IX.  Parisian  Omnibuses, 94 

X.  The  Newsmen, 102 

XI.  Parisian  Peddlers, 113 

XII.  The  Green  Regiment, 124 

XIII.  Modern  Reporters, 131 

PARIS  FROM  THE  CRADLE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

XIV.  Nurses  and  Children, 143 

XV.  The  Parisian  Cuisine, 153 

XVI.  The  Water  Supply, 166 

XVII.  Parisian  Dinners, 173 

XVIII.  Soirees, 181 

XIX.  Funerals, 192 

V 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


THEATRES.  . page 

XX.  Parisian  Ticket  Speculators,  - - - 203 

XXI.  The  Theatre  Franqais  “ Republic,”  - - 212 

XXII.  The  Diva  of  the  Eighties,  ....  218 

XXIII.  Rising  Stars, 225 

THE  TRIUMPHS  OF  THE  EXPOSITION. 

XXIV.  The  Era  of  Titanic  Structures,  - - - 239 

XXV.  Exotics  at  the  Exposition,  - - - 252 

XXVI.  The  Little  Javanese  Girls,  - 261 

XXVII.  Chips  Here  and  There,  ....  273 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Eiffel  Tower  at  Night,  ......  xiii 

The  Parisiennes  and  the  Blacks,  .....  xvi 

Frame  and  Picture, xix 

Paris  of  To-day, i 

The  Temptress  holds  her  Net, 2 

Street  Lamps  with  Gas  inscriptions,  ....  3 

“ Comme  il  faut,”  from  head  to  toe,  ....  4 

His  Mustache  must  have  the  Turn  and  Twist  required,  5 
Walking  home  from  Mass,  -------  6 

Just  home  from  Boarding-school,  -----  7 

“ La  Frileuse,”  after  Van  Beers, 8 

Book-hunters  and  Gossips  on  the  Seine  Quays,  - - 9 

Your  Pocket-book  may  be  a little  Emptier,  10 

Outside  a Boulevard  Caf£  (left  bank),  ...  n 

“Darby  and  Joan”  on  a Sunday  Stroll  along  the 

Seine, 12 

The  Latest  Chic,  - - - 14 

They  have  put  on  the  Seven-leagued  Boots,  - - 15 

Madame  had  her  Special  Jour, 16 

A “ V INGT1EME  SIECLE”  AFTERNOON  RECEPTION,  - - l8 

At  Ease, 19 

Dancing  in  Paris,  - - -----  20 

The  “ Speranza  ” Ballet  at  the  Eden  Theatre,  - - 22 

Champagne  between  the  Dances, 23 

“Madame  always  finds  Gentlemen  enough  - 24 

“ When  she  Hides  Herself  in  her  Wraps  - 24 

vii 


Vlll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Subscription  “ Grand  Bal,” 25 

The  Committee  “Receives,” 26 

A Scene  at  the  Dramatic  Artists’  Ball,  ...  27 

Aristocrats  “ Far  from  the  Madding  Crowd,”  - - 28 

Street  Dancing  on  the  Day  of  the  “ F£te  Nationale,”  29 

At  the  Jardin  de  Paris, 30 

At  “ Bullier,”  31 

High  Life  at  the  “ Barri£re,”  .....  32 

The  Students’  Monome, 33 

The  Law  Student, 36 

The  Medical  Student, 37 

“Just  Room  enough  for  a Piano  . . . - - - 39 

The  Law  “Etudiante,” 40 

The  Medical  “Etudiante,”  ......  41 

The  Art  “Etudiante,” 42 

More  Book-worms, 44 

Edouard  Pailleron, 49 

Georges  Ohnet,  ---------  50 

Octave  Feuillet, 31 

Emile  Augier, 53 

Pasteur  (after  a drawing  of  Alb.  Edelfelt),  - - 57 

Pasteur  (after  a photograph  taken  in  1875),  - - 6 r 

The  Paris  Street, 69 

The  Caf£, 71 

On  the  Boulevard, 72 

“The  Caf£  is  a Reserved  Seat  in  the  Street  . . . - 74 

A Popular  Cafe, 78 

The  Cigar-stump  Picker, 84 

“In  Paris  the  Normal  Number  is  Two  . . . - - 86 

Messieurs  les  Coches  de  Fiacre, 87 

The  Cook  sends  for  her  Cab, 88 

Une  Station  de  Fiacres, 89 

Monsieur  le  Cocher  does  not  Drive  for  Everybody,  - 90 

A good  Cigar  while  waiting, 91 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  ix 

PAGE 

An  Evening  Drive  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  - - - 92 

Od£on-Batignolles, 94 

On  the  Top  of  an  Omnibus  (after  a painting  of  H. 

Bacon), 95 

The  Madeline-Bastille  Omnibus, 96 

Close  quarters  inside  an.  Omnibus,  - - - 97 

The  Omnibus  Driver, 98 

The  Omnibus  Conductor, 99 

At  the  Omnibus  Station  in  the  Rain,  ....  99 

“ They  come  running  from  all  directions  . . . - 100 

The  Jovial  Driver, 101 

A Frenchman  trying  to  sell  “ La  France,”  - - - 102 

Newsmen  at  an  Omnibus  Station, 104 

The  Evening  Newspaper  on  the  Boulevard,  - - 105 

First  Edition, 107 

Evening  Papers  on  the  Boulevard  in  times  of  Politi- 
cal Excitement, 109 

Bill-Poster;  Election  Times, no 

The  Chestnut  Roaster, 113 

A Trick  or  two  to  attract  Attention,  - - - 115 

The  Student  and  the  “ Marchand  d’Habits,”  - - 117 

The  “Cast  Clothes”  Man  at  the  Arri^res,  - - 118 

“A  la  Barque,” 119 

Fine  Potatoes  by  the  Bushel, 120 

The  Chickweed  Man, 121 

The  Shrimp  and  Fry  Fish  Woman, 122 

Other  “ Sparrows,” 123 

Could  tell  a few,  ........  124 

At  the  Barri£re, 125 

Madame  and  her  Rabbit, 126 

Even  the  Clock-work  Rabbit  for  B£b£,  - 129 

Allez  ! - 130 

The  Reporter, 131 

The  “Grande  Mondaine,” 134 

The  Reporter  at  the  “ Grand  Bal,”  ....  135 


X 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

The  Political  Reporter, 137 

Madame’s  tale  of  Woes, 138 

Taking  Notes, 139 

Paris  from  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave,  - 141 

Parisian  Children, 143 

Hung  up  on  the  Peg, 145 

Madame  shows  off  her  Nurse, 147 

Nurses  at  the  Tuilleries  Gardens,  ....  149 

The  Little  Soldier, 150 

Nonnon  brings  in  B£b£  at  Dessert-time,  - - - 15 1 

Children  at  Play, 152 

Enjoyment, 153 

Cut  up  and  labled  on  Marble  Tables,  - 157 

The  Bread-girl, - - 158 

One  of  the  Pavilions  in  the  “ Halles  Centrales,”  - 159 

“ Le  Carreau  des  Halles,”  ------  161 

“ Le  Fort  de  la  Halle,” 163 

“ Une  Dame  de  la  Halle,” 164 

The  little  “ Marmiton,” 164 

“ At  Table,” 165 

Parisians  of  a more  quiet  Temperament,  - - - 167 

Watering  the  Champs-Elys£es, 170 

A Wallace  Fountain,  -------  172 

“The  ‘esprit’  yet  reigns  . . . - - - - 173 

Private  Theatricals — behind  the  scenes,  - - - 177 

The  “ Rieuses,”  - - - 179 

L’entrSe, 181 

Reception  Day  at  a Minister’s, 183 

The  “Cotillon”  King, 186 

The  Obligatory  Supper,  - 187 

Where  “tout  Paris”  goes, 189 

A type, 191 

In  full  Pomp,  - 192 

“ To  please  them,” 193 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


xi 


PAGE 


The  Mourners, 193 

A “First-class”  Hearse, 195 

A Gigantic  Wreath, 197 

Praying  for  the  Dead  in  the  Crematory  Chapel,  - 198 

In  the  House.  Behind  the  Scenes, 201 

Opposite  the  Vaudeville  Theatre,  ....  203 

Theatre-hungry, 1 - - - 204 

Society  Lions  selling  Programs, 205 

The  Ticket  Agent  in  the  Saloon  around  the  Corner,  - 209 

Monsieur  must  necessarily  be  “ au  jour,”  - - - 211 

Outside  the  Theatre  Francais, 212 

Reichemberg, 213 

Broissat, 214 

The  Green  Room  at  the  Theatre  Francais,  - - 215 

“He  may  sit  and  yawn,” 217 

Judic, 218 

JUDIC  AS  “MLLE.  NlTOUCHE,” 221 

Judic’s  Dressing-room  at  the  Eden  Theatre,.  - - 223 

Sitting  in  Judgment, 223 

Aim£e  Tessandier, 227 

Jeanne  Granier, 229 

Madame  Grisier-Montbazon, 232 

Madame  Simon-Girard,  --------  233 

Gabrielle  Rejarre, 234 

Mlle.  Muller, 233 

The  Triumphs  of  the  Exposition, 237 

In  Front  of  the  Trocad£ro, 239 

President  Carnot  opens  the  Exposition,  - - - 241 

Crowds  of  Strangers  by  every  Train,  - - - 243 

The  Hungarian  Belle  with  the  Byzantine  Head-gear,  245 

A “ Grecian  ” Beauty  from  Montmartre,  - - - 246 

The  “Dulhulla,”  in  the  Swedish  Pavilion,  - - - 247 

Still  they  come, 250 

Genuine,  - 252 

The  Cairo  Street, 253 


xii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

The  Mexican  Pavilion, 256 

National  Soldiers  on  Guard.  (In  the  background,  the 

Anghor-bar  Tower), 259 

The  little  Javanese  Girls,  - 261 

Madame  in  a “ Pousse-Pousse,” 262 

The  Little  Javanese  Dancers  on  their  way  Home,  - 264 

The  Kanak  Village, 267 

Aiouscha, 270 

Baya,  the  fair  Almee  at  the  Morrocco  Caf£,  - - 271 

Resting, 273 

The  “Fauteuil  Roulant,” 275 

Japanese  Thuya,  150  years  old, 278 

A Turkish  Woman  bred  born  and  in Batignolles,  279 

The  First  Dolmen-builders, 281 

The  Samoyede  Camp,  - - 282 

Egyptian  Weavers, 283 

An  Anthenian  Pottery, 284 

The  Eiffel  Tower  Illuminated, 287 

The  Tricolor-dressed  Hebe  at  the  Alsatian  “Bras- 
serie,”   289 

On  the  First  Story  of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  - - - 291 

The  Merry-go-Round, 293 

The  “ Fountaines  Lumineuses, 295 


PREFACE. 


WHEN,  after  the 
flood,  N o a h ’'s 
descendants  attempted 
to  build  the  tower  of 
Babel,  Jehovah’s  anger 
was  aroused  at  their 
presumptuous  w o r k. 
H e confounded  their 
tongues  and  scattered 
them  abroad  over  all 
the  earth,  and  the  tower 
was  not  built  up.  The 
millenniums  that  have 
passed  have  changed 
everything,  and  after 
the  telescope  has 
brought  the  heavens 
nearer  to  the  earth, 
their  correlation  is  seen 
to  be  very  different. 
The  God  of  Abraham 
and  Isaac  was  a jealous 
God,  visiting  every  in- 
iquity upon  the  people; 
the  God  of  Pasteur  and 
Addison  has  seen  that 
the  beings  He  created 
in  His  own  image  are 
in  many  things  doing 


XIV 


PREFA  CE. 


His  work,  and  He  now  lets  them  have  their  own  way. 
They  have  once  more  united  what  was  scattered  abroad. 
The  electric  telegraph  reaches  with  the  swiftness  of  thought 
from  pole  to  pole.  Through  the  telephone  men  speak  to  each 
other  regardless  of  distance,  and  when  Paris  invites  to  a festival 
it  is  the  Shah  of  Persia,  the  King  of  Senegambia,  the  Chinese 
Mandarin,  and  the  Kanaka  from  the  Sandwich  Islands  that, 
mounting  the  winged  horse  of  steam,  quickly  obey  the  call. 
The  whole  earth  is  a universal  workshop,  one  huge  fair.  And 
man,  who  likes  to  return  to  his  original  conceptions,  has  once 
more  taken  up  the  plan  of  the  tower.  But  this  time  the  work 
was  not  suspended  ; it  rises  proudly  upward,  all  the  different 
nations  gather  under  it,  and  the  many  different  tongues  unite  in 
one  hymn  to  its  praise. 

For  now  the  fruit  was  ripe.  The  tower  stands  there  only  as 
a symbol,  as  a mighty  monument  to  the  all-conquering  power  of 
labor.  All  the  surroundings  are  in  harmony.  It  was  the  tower 
that  drew  all  nations  like  one  company  of  wandering  pilgrims ; 
everybody  wanted  to  see  the  Babelmyth  reproduced  and  realized 
in  iron.  But  it  was  the  environment  that  completed  the  task. 
Nobody  came  who  did  not  in  his  own  peculiar  field  discover  new 
wonders,  new  paths  to  beat,  new  victories  to  win,  and  the  com- 
pleted exhibition,  this  work  for  which  so  many  had  prophesied 
an  early  death,  attained  an  unequaled  triumph.  Like  the  snow- 
ball, it  grew  in  its  onward  course.  All  the  splendor  of  bygone 
days  counted  as  nothing  compared  to  that  of  the  festivals  given 
in  its  honor,  their  fame  reached  all  over  the  globe,  and  during 
the  whole  summer  the  world  talked  and  dreamt  of  nothing  but 
the  earthly  paradise  on  the  Champ-de-Mars.  Rich  and  poor  were 
drawn  within  the  magic  circle.  The  laborer  took  his  family  and 
his  lunch-basket  and  spent  his  Sunday  on  the  green  lawns  ; the 
queens  of  fashion  assembled  their  courts  near  its  palatial  monu- 
ments, the  heart  of  humanity  pulsated  there.  If  the  exhibition 
in  itself  was  but  a kirmess,  which  according  to  public  opinion 
diminished  the  triumph,  it  was  nevertheless  an  extraordinary  one. 
The  Parisian  ladies  may  have  looked  at  the  blacks  from  Kampong 
and  Congo-town  with  the  same  curiosity  that  they  bestowed 
upon  Monsieur  Marseille’s  boxers;  the  white  donkeys  in  the 
Cairo  street  were  perhaps  only  an  Oriental  edition  of  the  merry- 


PREFACE. 


XV 


go-rounds  from  the  fair  at  Neuilly,  but  the  bayadere’s  booth 
stood  between  the  machinery  hall  and  the  Palais  des  Arts  Lib6- 
raux,  embracing  under  its  vaults  the  history  of  a civilization  ; the 
charlatans  of  the  kirmess  were  continually  overshadowed  by  the 
grandees  of  science,  and  in  spite  of  the  electric  fountains  the 
greatest  charm  was  to  follow,  step  by  step,  the  mighty  progress 
of  civilization.  And  thus  the  curious  and  the  earnest  man,  the 
frivolous  and  the  industrious,  the  idler  and  the  scholar,  all  came 


to  admire  the  gigantic 
work  around  the  great 
tower.  When  the  cor- 
ner-stone was  laid,  no- 
body thought  it  would 
ever  be  completed. 
Through  six  years  it 
was  said  day  by  day 
that  the  exhibition 
would  never  take  place, 
that  it  would  be  ren- 
dered impossible  by 
strikes,  by  pecuniary 
deficiency,  or  by  wars, 
civil  or  foreign.  Now 
that  it  stood  there,  it 
was  the  apotheosis  of 
Paris.  The  visitors 
compared  what  they 
saw  with  what  it  might 


have  been  in  their  own  country,  and  they  understood  that  it  was 
more  than  a mere  accident,  when  the  completed  Babel  Tower  stood 
on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  Yes,  unfurl  the  flag  of  France  from 
the  Eiffel  Tower.  Let  it  wave  there  over  the  fleeting  clouds  as 
the  victorious  banner  of  peace,  progress,  and  humanity.  Let  the 
swarming  crowds  from  all  the  corners  of  the  earth  make  their  pil- 
grimage to  the  top  of  the  tower  and  contemplate  Paris  lying  at 
their  feet.  Let  them  carry  away  the  impression  of  each  spot  in 
their  memory.  There  is  sunlight  and  splendor  over  this  city. 
Joy  makes  her  beautiful,  the  life-giving  fountain  of  Science  and 
Labor  that  wells  up  from  her  heart  makes  her  great,  and  enables 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


her  to  bring  forth  wonder  upon  wonder.  The  author  of  the  fol- 
lowing sketches  has  already  given  many  a picture  of  this  city, 
and  drawn  many  a figure  taken  from  the  variegated  crowds 
within  its  walls.  He  continues  here  his  tale  of  the  Paris  and 
the  Parisians  of  to-day,  trying  at  the  same  time  to  describe  the 
new  features  which  the  summer  of  ’89  and  its  work  have  added  to 
the  old,  and  he  hopes  that  the  unceasing  interest  given  to  every- 
thing that  concerns  Paris  may  once  more  make  his  book  wel- 
come. 


Richard  Kaufmann. 


XiX 


I 


cities,  a castle,  a church,  and  a court  of  justice,  and  she  was, 
like  most  other  cities,  a collection  of  houses,  built  alongside 
of  each  other  for  the  sake  of  their  common  local  interest. 
But  when  she  became  of  age,  she  went  across  the  river  and 
enlarged  her  domain.  She  settled  down  on  the  left  bank,  and 
built  there  a university  and  the  high-schools  that  gradually 
were  raised  around  it.  They  were  the  first  lights  that  reached 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  city.  For  centuries  it  was  only  here, 
where  the  sun  of  education  illumined  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
that  the  student  could  obtain  his  certificate  of  the  acquired 
knowledge  and  science  that  classified  him  as  a civilized  being. 
And  when,  later  on,  other  powers  than  that  of  science  advanced 
their  claim,  Paris  had  raised  for  them,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
river,  temples  that  gave  her  a right  to  be  considered  the  Mecca  of 
the  modern  era.  The  glory  of  the  right  bank  was  as  resplen- 
dent as  that  of  the  left,  although  it  was  of  another  nature.  A 
greater  contrast  than  these  two  river-banks  can  hardly  be  imag- 
ined. The  right  is  the  city  of  Froufrou,  the  tempting  metropo- 

Z 4 


2 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


lis  of  flickering  frivolity  and  vanity.  All  that  meets  the  eye  is 
there  to  make  life  gayer,  to  change  its  rough  places  into  a bed 
of  roses.  Everything  shows  a refined  taste  ; at  each  step  luxury 
rises  and  envelops  you,  appealing  to  all  your  senses,  as  stimu- 
lating as  wine.  Paris  is  here  the  true  “ Venus  die  siisze  Teufelinn  ” 
into  whose  arms  it  is  so  sweet  to  rush,  and  from  whom  it  is  so 
difficult  to  tear  oneself  away,  that,  when  once  enthralled  by  her, 
inevitably,  one  proves  himself  another  Tannhauser.  The  temp- 
tress only  holds  her  net,  and  like 
butterflies,  blinded  by  the  sun,  the 
poor  dizzy  children  of  the  world 
tumble  into  it. 

The  mere  aspect  of  the  city 
leaves  an  impression  of  festivity. 
Boulevard  follows  upon  boulevard 
and  the  long  asphalt-covered  side- 
walks, overshadowed  by  the  trees, 
lie  there  smooth  as  a ball-room 
floor.  The  shops  outbid  each 
other  in  their  shows,  and  on  the 
broad,  and  always  newly  macad- 
amized drives,  carriages  come  and 
go.  The  houses,  with  their  gilded 
balconies,  always  look  their  best. 
Through  the  glass  of  the  high  mar- 
ble portal  you  can  see  the  stair- 
case with  its  soft,  luxurious  car- 
pets, and  at  the  end  of  each  street,  visible  from. every  point,  is  an 
Arc-de-Triomphe,  an  Eglise  de  la  Madeleine,  a Colonne  de  Ven- 
dome  or  de  Juillet,  some  public  monument  that  attracts  the  eye 
and  fascinates  it  by  its  stately  beauty.  Parks  and  squares  are  to 
be  seen  everywhere  with  a profusion  of  flowers,  as  if  there  were  a 
flower-fair  all  the  year  round.  The  chairs  outside  the  cafe's  in- 
vite one  to  rest  and  there  is  a continual  parade  of  theatre-kiosks 
and  street-lamps,  with  inscriptions  in  gas-flames  that  tell  the 
stranger  of  the  many  pleasures  that  wish  to  bid  him  welcome  on 
his  arrival.  The  first  time  he  walks  along  a Parisian  boulevard,  he 
invariably  has  a feeling  of  being  led  into  a world  where  existence 
is  more  beautiful,  joy  more  easily  obtained,  and  trouble  more 


THE  TWO  RIVER-BANICS. 


3 


quickly  thrown  away  than  anywhere  else,  and  the  best  of  it  all  is 
that  this  feeling  repeats  itself  day  after  day,  year  after  year,  as 
often  as  he  walks  there. 

The  public  of  the  boulevards  may,  when  carefully  studied, 
have  many  a weak  point,  but  its  outward  appearance  is  without 
a blemish.  Monsieur  is  comme  il  faut  from  the  crown  of  his 
head  to  the  sole  of  his  feet.  He 
would  look  upon  it  as  a profana- 
tion if  he  ever  made  a step  on  the 
asphalt  without  first  having  pre- 
pared himself  for  it.  His  socks 
are  embroidered  in  the  color  pre- 
scribed by  the  boulevard  fashion, 
his  shirt  has  the  correct  number 
of  button-holes,  and  before  ap- 
pearing in  public  he  has  carefully 
given  to  his  mustache  the  turn  and 
twist  required.  It  is  not  a fashion 
that  he  may  do  without,  if  he  does 
not  care  to  be  fashionable  ; it  is  a 
ritual  that  he  must  submit  to,  if  he 
does  not  want  to  be  counted  an 
apostate.  And  his  manners  cor- 
respond to  his  apparel.  There  are 
no  rough  corners  in  it,  it  is  quite 
a rounded  and  stylish  ensemble. 

The  Parisian  lady  possesses  a per- 
fume of  dainty  elegance  that  is 
hers  alone,  that  no  other  woman 
can  ever  attain  to  perfection. 

r STREET  LAMPS  WITH  GAS-INSCRIPTIONS. 

She  may  recline  among  the  satin 

cushions  of  her  carriage,  adorned  with  laces  and  jewels,  or  she 
may,  dressed  in  black,  with  her  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  walk 
home  from  mass  ; she  may  live  in  one  of  the  palaces  of  the 
Faubourg,  or  in  a milliner’s  apartments  ; she  may  have  experi- 
enced much  of  the  world  and  what  it  has  to  give,  or  come 
straight  from  a boarding-school  with  all  the  expectations  of 
youth  ; she  may,  dressed  in  a light  spring  gown,  delight  over  the 
Grand-prix,  or  she  may,  when  snow  covers  her  beloved  Bois  de 


4 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


Boulogne,  shiver  in  her  fur  cloak.  Whosoever  she  is  and  whatso- 
ever is  hid  under  the  costume  she  wears,  she  is  always  charming, 
dainty,  and  picturesque. 

All  these  things  make  life  attractive.  Every  possible  comfort 
invites  you  at  every  turn.  Any  stranger  that  spends  the  first 
night  upon  his  arrival  somewhere  near  the  boulevards  will,  when 
he  walks  out  the  next  morning  for  the  first  time,  find  that  all  he 
could  possibly  wish  for  is  at  his  beck  and  call.  There  are  indi- 
viduals,— I have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  them,— who  when 


“COMME  IL  FAUT”  FROM  HEAD  TO  TOE. 


their  Chateaubriand  with  Chambertin  is  put  before  them  at 
Champeaux’s,  ask  with  an  offended  air  for  roast-beef,  or  pie  and 
cheese.  But  blessed  with  a less  barbarous  taste,  you  need  only 
go  straight  along  to  feel  at  every  step  the  soft  fairy-arms  that 
carry  you  to  the  fulfillment  of  your  desires,  before  you  even  know 
how  to  utter  them  in  words.  You  may  return  from  a ramble 
like  this  with  your  pocket-book  a little  emptier,  but  it  is  the  way 
of  the  world  that  the  best  is  not  always  so  very  cheap,  and  when, 
after  a well-spent  day,  during  which  you  have  felt  yourself  a 
Parisian,  have  adopted  his  habits  and  have  eaten  your  delightful 
little  dinner  in  the  boulevard-restaurant,  you  will,  when  the 


THE  TWO  RIVER-BANKS. 


5 


coffee  and  cognac  are  served  and  the  blue  smoke  of  your  cigar 
envelopes  you,  feel  that  the  day  has  been  a particularly  enjoy- 
able one. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  right  bank  in  the  course  of 
years  has  adopted  a morality  of  a rather  Babylonian  character.  It 
is  not  alone  the  city  of  the  Champs-Elys6es  but  also  that  of  Elysde- 
Montmartre,  not  alone  the  city  of  the  Grand  Opera  but  also  that 
of  the  Opera  balls,  and  if  at  these  places  it  is  chiefly  the  idol  of 
pleasure  that  is  worshiped,  there 
is  still  much  that  might  be  con- 
demned from  a point  of  strict 
morality.  It  is  only  too  true 
that  in  this  kaleidoscope  of  vari- 
egated life-pictures  all  that  glit- 
ters is  not  gold.  It  is  not  alone 
the  jeweler  who  has  learned  to 
perfection  the  art  of  imitation, 
and  between  Tortoni  and  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe  there  is  much 
both  of  riches  and  nobility,  of 
virtue  and  beauty  that  could  not 
stand  proof  against  a closer  in- 
spection. But  the  imitation  is 
so  well  done  that  the  delusion  is 
almost  complete.  The  adven- 
turer resembles  the  aristocrat ; 
the  swindler  may  be  bankrupt 
the  next  day,  the  successful  par- 
venu may  have  risen  from  the 
very  bottom  of  society,  but  when 
they  are  able  to  invite  tout  Paris  HIS  mustache  must  have  the  turn 
to  their  palace  on  Place  Males-  AND  TWIST  required. 

herbes,  all  is  in  perfect  form  ; the  reception  as  well  as  the 
guests.  But  let  us  pass  over  the  bridges  with  their  beautiful 
views  of  the  green  landscapes  of  the  Banlieue,  and  the  complete 
and  sudden  change  of  the  picture  is  striking.  Even  the  quay 
bears  another  stamp.  Pomp  and  splendor  are  supplanted  by  a 
homelike  cosiness.  High-life  aspirations  have  ceased,  and  on  the 
stone  walls  of  the  quay  are  placed  long  boxes  with  second-hand 


6 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  old  trees  and  carry  on  the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood  with 
the  girls,  who  come  to  buy.  Even  during  the  busiest  part  of 


books ; the  passer-by  finds  time  to  stop  and  look  them  over,  and 
even  to  be  engrossed  in  reading.  The  basket-women  sit  under 


WALKING  HOME  FROM  MASS. 


THE  TWO  RIVER-BANKS. 


7 


the  day  there  is  always  a certain  atmosphere  suggestive  of  the 
peace  that  will  follow.  And  the  more  you  advance  the  stronger 


JUST  HOME  FROM  BOARDING-SCHOOL. 

this  impression  becomes.  The  tumultuous,  feverish  life  has 
ceased ; the  narrow,  crooked  lanes  form  themselves  into  a laby- 


8 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


rinth.  Madame  de  Stael-Holstein’s  gutter  runs  still  through  the 
middle  of  Rue  du  Bac,  and  the  fathers  after  whom  the  Rue  des 
Saints-P£res  has  its  name  would  not  be  out  of  place  if  they  took 
their  daily  walk  on  its  pavement.  Turning  to  the  right  you 


“ LA  FRILEUSE,”  AFTER  VAN  BEERS. 

enter  the  noble  quietude  of  Faubourg  St.  Germain  with  its  old 
palaces  entre  cour  et  jar  din ; to  the  left,  walking  through  the 
Quartier  Latin  you  will  reach  the  historical  part  of  the  city,  where 
—nearest  the  mother-island  in  the  Seine— the  Sorbonne,  the  Col- 


9 


BOOK-HUNTERS  AND  GOSSIPS  ON  THE  SEINE  QUAYS. 


IO 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


lege  de  France,  high  schools  upon  high  schools,  libraries,  labora- 
tories, and  museums  stand  side  by  side.  This  quarter  of  the  town 
is,  compared  with  other  parts,  small  indeed,  and  the  place  it  fills 
in  the  life  of  Paris  is  not  as  important  as  it  used  to  be.  But  a little 
of  the  dust  from  the  old  books  and  the  light  that  issues  from  its 
temples  of  art  and  science  is  still  floating  over  the  town  on  this 
side  of  the  river,  and  gives  its  peculiar  stamp  to  it.  There  is  no 
imitation,  no  varnish,  no  false  pretensions.  Even  where  the 

modern  boulevard  has 
forced  its  way  through 
the  old  lanes,  and  its 
green  trees  and  motley 
kiosks  attract  a crowd 
which,  like  that  of  the 
Italiens  and  Capucines, 
sit  before  the  open 
caf£s  and  drink  their 
absinthe  — even  here, 
the  whole  is  more  com- 
monplace. But  behind 
this  simplicity  there  is 
something  genuine  and 
healthy,  bearing  wit- 
ness of  that  self-respect 
which  despises  tinsel. 
Paris  on  the  right  bank 
is  the  metropolis  trying 
to  do  her  name  honor. 

YOUR  POCKET-BOOK  MAY  BE  A LITTLE  EMPTIER. 

Pans  on  the  left  bank 
feels  herself  at  home.  The  boulevard  type  is  hardly  ever 
seen  here,  here  are  des  beaux  et  vrais  types , men  who  are 
not  afraid  of  letting  their  individuality  speak  through  their 
outward  appearance.  Wherever  you  go  here — in  the  lec- 
ture-room, or  in  the  old  business  offices,  in  the  painter’s  studio 
or  in  the  work-shop,  or  if  you  follow  the  laborer,  who  when 
the  week’s  work  is  done  takes  his  wife  for  a walk  along  the 
Seine, — everywhere  you  will  meet  people  who  have  their  indi- 
viduality because  they  all  have  an  aim  in  life  which  they  strive 
to  attain.  There  is  not  much  idleness  anywhere  in  Paris.  In  the 


OUTSIDE  A BOULEVARD  CAF&  (LEFT  BANK). 


II 


12 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


hunt  for  pleasure  or  the  fight  for  existence  all  energy  must  bo 
summoned  in  order  to  attain  a place  in  the  ranks.  But  the  very 
air  of  Paris  seems  to  give  this  energy  and  faculty  for  work.  It 
is  often,  too  often,  made  use  of  in  a mad  race  for  the  millions, 
but  on  the  left  bank  no  temple  for  the  golden  calf  has  as  yet 


“DARBY  AND  JOAN  ” ON  A SUNDAY  STROLL  ALONG  THE  SEINE. 

been  raised.  There  are  still  people  to  be  found  here  for  whom 
the  happiness  of  life  means  independence  and  duty  fulfilled. 

The  Seine  itself  is  a curious  river.  She  turns  and  twists  so 
that  you  never  quite  know  where  to  look  for  her.  You  may 
have  been  born  and  brought  up  on  her  banks  and  still  be  de- 
ceived by  her,  for  when  you  expect  to  find  her  on  your  right 
hand,  you  suddenly  see  her  on  your  left.  And  it  is  the  same 
with  the  life  led  on  her  banks.  The  characteristics  of  the  left 
bank  may  sometimes  be  found,  like  a peaceful  and  quiet  oasis, 
amidst  the  tumult  of  life  on  the  right,  and  the  polish  of  the 


THE  TWO  RIVER-BANKS. 


13 


boulevard’s  fashion  reaches  over  the  river  in  the  form  of  this 
savoir-vivre  that  makes  intercourse  easier  and  more  charming. 
Paris  is  the  city  of  contrasts,  but  instead  of  clashing,  they  go  hand 
in  hand,  trying  to  supply  each  other’s  wants,  so  that  the  right 
and  the  left  banks  form  a complete  ensemble , where  everybody 
can  find  what  his  heart  desires.  It  is  here  that  the  secret  of  the 
charm  of  this  city  is  to  be  found.  It  fascinates  everybody,  not 
because  of  this  or  that  advantage,  but  because  you  may  come 
to  it  with  whatever  demands  you  please,  and  it  is  able  to  gratify 
them  all. 


II. 


Chic  de  Vingtieme  Siecle. 


THE  character  of  Parisian  high  life  and 
that  of  the  boulevards,  which  repre- 
sent this  life,  is  about  to  undergo  a radi- 
cal change.  As  the  century  was  slowly 
advancing  toward  the  close  of  its  day, 
the  shadow  of  pessimism  had  lately 
grown  darker  and  darker.  The  old 
words  “ chic ,”  “ pschut”  and  “ v lan"  were 
changed  to  “ fin  de  siecle."  People  had 
seen  everything,  and  tried  everything; 
they  no  longer  pretended  to  be  better  than 
they  were,  and  even  took  a certain  pride  in 
showing  themselves  to  be  blasts  and  old. 
To  be  comme  il  faut,  you  had  to  acknowl- 
edge that  you  were  morally  “ used  up,” 
and  to  testify  to  this  fact  by  displaying  a 
heavy,  dragging  weariness.  Such  was  the 
law  of  fashion.  But  as  the  old  century  drew  to  its  close  a new 
era  seemed  to  dawn  with  1889.  It  has  taken  no  more  than  a hun- 
dred years  to  efface  the  impressions  of  the  Revolution,  however 
great  they  may  have  been,  and  although  the  nineteenth  century 
is  not  yet  at  an  end,  it  has  done  its  part.  The  sun  of  the  twen- 
tieth century  is  rising  above  the  horizon,  and  Paris,  that  never 
likes  to  be  left  behind,  is  no  more  fin  de  siecle ; everybody  that 
feels  himself  of  any  importance  is  vingtieme  siecle.  It  is  some- 
thing entirely  different,  just  the  opposite  of  what  they  were 
before;  but  Paris  has  always  been  fond  of  going  to  extremes. 
At  twenty  the  Parisians  used  to  be  as  decrepit  and  blasts  as  old 
men;  now  they  are,  in  spite  of  their  white  hair,  all  fire  and  flame, 
full  of  interest  and  enthusiasm.  They  used  to  shrug  their  shoul- 


14 


CHIC  DE  VINGTlkME  SltCLE. 


15 


ders  in  weary  pessimism  at  this  world’s  troubles  and  tribula- 
tions, now  they  rise  to  meet  the  future  with  quick,  joyful  steps, 
their  hearts  full  of  Tope,  firmly  believing  in  progress  and  in  the 
new  golden  age  that  it  will  create.  The  young  gentlemen  who 
have  changed  from  fin  de  si'ecle  to  vihgtieme  siecle  have  suddenly 
thrown  off  the  Janguidness  that  made  them  drag  their  feet 
along  the  asphalt,  as  if  the  strength  sufficient  to  raise  them  had 
failed.  They  have  put  on  the  seven-leagued  boots ; take  the 
express  for  Samarkand,  write  their  books  of  travels  on  the  cars, 
give  public  lectures,  build  laboratories  with  the  aim  of  finding 
out  how  to  destroy  bacilli,  they  dress  in 
blue  sailor  suits  and  set  out  on  political 
expeditions  among  the  farmers  and 
laborers.  Or,  if  they  are  so  wedded  to 
the  boulevards  that  they  cannot  leave, 
they  saunter  along  with  an  air  that  cor- 
responds to  the  atmosphere  of  the  time. 

They  are  always  on  the  move ; the  very 
embodiment  of  activity,  they  only  find 
life  worth  living  when  it  is  a continual 
chain  of  surmounted  difficulties. 

But  the  ladies  more  than  anybody  else 
have  taken  up  the  new  cause  eagerly  ; the 
more  prominent  their  position,  the  more 
energetic  their  endeavors  to  become  vingt- 
ieme  siecle.  The  social  life  of  Paris  had 
for  some  time  been  languishing,  but 
Madame  had  at  least  kept  her  jour. 

If,  during  the  week,  she  wished  to  be 
undisturbed  by  visitors,  she  had,  in  return, 
one  day  of  the  seven  on  which  she  was 
ready  to  receive  all  those  who  wanted 
to  pay  her  their  respects.  The  house  was 
brushed  up  for  the  occasion,  the  servants 
were  dressed  as  well  as  the  social  posi- 
tion of  the  family  allowed,  and  immediately  after  lunch  Madame 
took  her  seat  in  the  salon  near  the  fireplace.  She  sat  there  until 
dinner-time,  asking,  with  an  amiable  smile,  each  new-comer  to  take 
his  seat  in  the  row  of  fauteuils,  and,  when  those  nearest  to  her  took 


THEY  HAVE  PUT  ON  THE 
SEVEN-LEAGUED  BOOTS. 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


16 

their  departure,  inviting  the  others  to  take  the  vacant  place.  As 
long  as  you  had  not  yet  attained  a seat  near  her,  you  could  only 
take  a passive  part  in  the  conversation  and  show  your  intel- 
ligence by  leaning  forward  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  interest  in 
the  conversation  near  the  fireplace,  even  if  you  were  so  far  away 
that  the  sound  of  the  voices  was  but  an  indistinct  murmur. 
When  at  last  you  were  happy  enough  to  be  near  your  hostess,  the 
reward  for  your  patience  was  the  most  gracious  inquiry  for  your 
health  and  that  of  your  dear  family.  The  conversation  would 
then  turn  upon  the  opera,  and  if  it  was  near  five  o’clock  you 
might  chance  to  be  made  happy  by  a cup  of  tea  and  a biscuit. 


MADAME  HAD  HER  SPECIAL  “JOUR.” 


But  now  Madame  has  her  jour  no  more  ; if  she  wants  to  be  in  the 
fashion  she  has  at  the  utmost  her  “ hours.”  On  the  bottom  of 
her  card,  where  her  jour  used  to  be  stated,  the  engraver  has  added 
a restricting  “ from  five  to  seven,”  and  the  concierge  has  received 
instructions  to  correspond.  It  is  of  no  use  to  besiege  the  stair- 
case at  any  other  time  of  the  day;  you  are  only  admitted 
between  five  and  seven.  Even  then  you  may  be  happy  if  you 
find  the  one  you  seek,  for  in  one  respect  the  Parisian  lady  has 
not  yet  learned  to  be  vingtihne  sihle;  she  has  but  a very  dim  con- 
ception of  the  fact  that  time  does  not  usually  change  its  course 


CHIC  DE  VINGTlkME  SIECLE.  17 

to  suit  her  convenience.  If  she  has  gone  shopping  early  in  the 
afternoon  and  been  detained  at  her  milliner's  or  dressmaker’s,  it 
not  infrequently  happens  that  when  at  last  she  starts  for  home 
she  discovers  to  her  horror  that  it  is  nearly  seven  o’clock.  Some 
ladies  consider  it  the  best  form  to  shorten  the  season.  A Parisian 
lady  of  any  self-respect  never  receives  all  the  year  round,  even  if 
she  were  so  fond  of  town  that  she  stayed  there  summer  and 
winter.  But  she  used  to  feel  it  her  duty  to  open  her  salon  near 
Christmas-time  or  at  least  with  the  new  year.  Now  that  she  is 
vingtibme  sihle , the  order  of  the  day  is  between  Easter  and 
Whitsuntide.  Really  it  is  more  than  long  enough  to  make  a 
slave  of  oneself.  But  even  this  has  its  compensation  ; if  the  hours 
are  few  which  Madame  sacrifices  to  her  friends,  they  are  at  least 
luxurious.  In  our  vingti'eme  si'ecle  it  is  not  sufficient  to  offer  a 
smile  and  a biscuit.  The  reign  of  the  tea-pot  has  ceased  ; the 
people  of  the  vingtihne  sihle  do  not  live  on  air,  they  have  good 
appetites  and  the  table  is  in  keeping  therewith.  The  guests  are 
offered  bouillon,  p die  de  foie  gras,  different  kinds  of  meat,  even 
cold  roast-beef,  and  an  abundance  of  wine  is  poured  out  from  the 
chased  silver  pitchers.  There  is  more  light,  too,  than  there  used 
to  be,  and  the  lamps,  that  are  beginning  to  play  an  important 
part  in  the  salons,  are  arranged  with  great  effect.  It  is  only 
in  America  that  they  use  gas  in  their  “ parlors  ” ; a Parisian  lady 
knows  how  to  value  the  cosy  light  of  a lamp.  Fancy  and  fashion 
have  created  a thousand  new  forms,  and  you  will  see  lamps  peep 
out  from  the  wall-draperies,  or  elevated  on  a high  column  in  the 
large  hall  that  is  now  indispensable  in  a modern  apartment, 
shedding  its  light  from  under  an  immense  lace  shade.  The  invi- 
tations are  more  informal  than  before.  A ball  invitation  from  a 
fashionable  house  is  simply  “ Monsieur  et  Madame  seront  chez  enxf 
then  the  date  and  hour,  and  in  a corner  is  added,  “ on  dansera." 
The  hours  from  five  to  seven  are  sometimes  taken  up  with  music, 
sometimes  with  monologues,  as  at  the  house  of  Mine,  de 
Chambrun,  who  encourages  modern  amateur  performances  ; but 
some  are  still  more  vingti'eme  sihle.  Since  the  society  for 
“ l' Education  physique  ” has  found  so  many  followers  among  the 
prominent  families  of  Paris,  the  performances  of  physical  skill 
have  become  a salon  sport  of  the  highest  fashion.  At  the 
“ hours  ” there  is  a secure  feeling  of  being  entre  soi,  and  nobody 


i8 


VINGTifeME  SlfeCLE  " AFTERNOON  RECEPTION. 


CHIC  DE  VI NG  Til? ME  SIECLE. 


19 


is  afraid  of  following  his  inclination.  We  have  lived  to  see  that 
a salon  may  be  transformed  into  a diminutive  circus,  where  the 
amateur  lady-clown,  and  acrobats  of  high  social  standing,  may 
give  their  performances.  Nobody  knows  where  they  will  draw 
the  line.  \ 

These  hours  never  are  a burden,  in  spite  of  the  preparations 
they  require  and  the  varied  entertainment  that  is  given.  How- 
ever splendid  and  magnificent  they  may  be,  they  last  but  a 
short  time,  between  Easter  and 
Whitsuntide,  12  hours  a year  ! The 
remaining  8748  are  given  to  the 
activity  that  proves  to  the  world 
that  Madame  is  vingtieme  siecle. 

The  qualities  required  for  this  epi- 
thet have  not  yet  been  enume- 
rated. This  much  seems  to  be 
clearly  understood,  that  the  com- 
mencement must  be  made  by  ad- 
vancing more  and  more  upon  the 
road  that  leads  to  masculineness, 
and  this  has  shown  itself  in  many 
ways  of  late  years,  not  the  least  in 
the  matter  of  dress.  The  ladies 
have  in  this  respect  made  quite  an 
important  step  by  accepting,  as  an 
indispensable  addition  to  their  costume,  the  heavy,  gold-headed, 
bamboo  cane,  without  which  they  never  enter  a salon  or  a 
theatre  if  they  pretend  to  be  at  all  fashionable.  But  these  out- 
ward attributes  do  not  seem  to  satisfy  them  ; their  mind,  too, 
must  do  its  best  to  add  to  the  glory  and  victory  of  this  ambition. 
Madame  has  her  cafe  in  the  correct  boulevard  style,  where  she 
can  do  her  correspondence,  give  her  orders,  and  receive  during 
that  time  of  the  year  when  she  does  not  do  it  in  her  home. 
She  is  about  to  get  a club,  where  sports  and  games  are  intro- 
duced, and  heaven  knows  what  she  will  still  do  before  this 
curious  vingtieme  silcle  has  reached  its  close  ! 


Dancing  in  Paris. 


Terpsichore  has  always  held 

her  court  in  Paris.  It  is  true 
that  in  this  art  the  city  cannot  boast 
of  many  leaders  of  Parisian  birth 
and  education,  as  is  the  case  with 
dramatic  art.  The  stars  have  almost 
without  exception  come  from  abroad, 
but  to  make  up  for  this,  Paris  has 
always  shown  herself  a true  patron  of  the  art.  A man  of 
fashion  cannot  give  a more  striking  proof  of  his  prominent 
social  position  than  by  being  a regular  frequenter  of  the 
Grand  Optra’s  ballet-green-room.  It  is  allowable  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  an  opera  evening  on  a sofa  in  the  ante- 
room of  the  box,  chatting  away  time,  but  when  the  orchestra 
announces  the  ballet  the  solemn  moment  has  arrived  when 
all  come  to  the  front  of  their  boxes,  where  they  sit  quietly 
and  attentively.  This  interest  is  not  alone  given  to  the  splen- 
dor of  the  scenery, — the  Paris  Op6ra  surpasses  in  this  respect  all 
others,— they  are  not  insensible  to  this  nor  to  the  charm  of  the 
dancers,  but  they  know  how  to  value  and  judge  the  correctness 
of  an  attitude,  the  elegance  of  a step,  and  the  harmony  of  an 
ensemble.  When  the  fortunate  one  who  has  attained  the  reputa- 


30 


DANCING  IN  PARIS. 


21 


tion  of  being  the  star  of  the  ballet  reaches  a high  position  com- 
paratively easily  and  can  see  whatever  she  may  desire  of  earthly 
goods  laid  at  her  feet,  she  has  attained  all  this  by  means  of  the 
many  possibilities  united  in  one  person  and  the  development  given 
them  by  a superior  school.  The  audience  that  is  accustomed  to 
the  very  best  does  not  let  anything  escape  its  criticism.  Close 
to  the  Opera  is  the  Eden  Theatre,  the  stage  of  which  is  especi- 
ally consecrated  to  the  cult  of  the  ballet.  All  that  other  coun- 
tries have  possessed  of  talent  In  the  art  has  been  imported  by  it, 
and  there  received  a finishing  polish.  Italy  and  Spain  have  sent 
their  loveliest  dancing  girls  to  charm  the  Parisians  by  their 
grace,  and  a Laus  and  a Carmencita  attract  the  crowds  that  sac- 
rifice their  gold  on  the  altar  of  Terpsichore.  As  amateurs  in  the 
art,  however,  the  Parisians  do  well.  There  was  a time,  when 
society,  with  its  pessimistic  notions,  seemed  to  look  down  upon 
dancing,  and  when  the  gentlemen  of  twenty  felt  the  weight  of 
their  years  so  heavy  upon  their  senile  shoulders  that  they  could 
not  swing  themselves  in  a lively  dance.  Even  in  the  lower 
classes  the  influence  was  felt,  and  it  looked  for  some  time  as  if 
the  tones  of  the  waltz  would  die  out.  Since  then  everybody  has 
become  vingtihne  siecle.  Paris  dances  once  more  as  joyously  as 
ever,  even  if  the  details  of  the  arrangement  have  changed  with 
the  time. 

As  long  as  the  Republic  felt  itself  young,  and  obliged  to  keep 
its  expenses  within  certain  limits,  the  forms  of  a social  gathering 
were  such  that  most  people  felt  it  in  their  power  to  entertain. 
Even  during  the  exhibition  of  ’78  it  was  still  the  rule  that  “ where 
there  is  a will  there  is  a way”;  the  salon  and  dining-room  furni- 
ture was  moved  out  into  the  kitchen,  the  bedroom  was  turned 
into  a cloak-room  ; a salmi  of  ducks  was  served  for  supper,  the 
guests  took  turns  at  playing  on  the  piano  for  dancing,  and  no- 
body made  fun  of  the  modesty  of  the  arrangement.  Now  every- 
thing is  different;  to  take  part  at  all  in  social  life,  it  has  become 
necessary  to  use  money  pretty  freely.  The  days  of  the  “ great 
ball  ” have  come.  This  ball  is  given  in  a private  hotel  built 
in  the  style  of  the  old  national  castles.  Thousands  of  invitations 
are  sent  out,  there  is  a monster  band  on  each  story,  and  the 
expenses  of  the  supper  alone  are  hardly  under  100,000  frcs. 
This  "great  ball”  is  the  aim  attained  by  a few,  but  toward 


snvT-iiW 


22 


DANCING  IN  PARIS. 


23 


which  everybody  is  striving,  the  beau-monde,  and  the  demi- 
monde, the  rich  and  the  middle  classes,  each  according  to  its 
means — or  beyond.  The  banker’s  wife  that  cannot  arrange  her 
ball  so  that  the  boulevard  papers  give  a full  account  of  it  the 
next  day  feels  her  cup  of  misery  complete.  And  there  is  no 
woman  of  the  middle  classes  who  does  not  feel  it  her  duty  to 
offer  her  guests  champagne  between  the  dances.  Unhappily,  at 
the  very  time  when  the  demands  of  society  grew  so  large  the 
means  seemed  to  fail  more  than  ever.  After  the  fruitful  years 
of  commercial  buoyancy  came  the  lean 
years  of  stagnation,  and  Paris  became, 
if  not  poor,  at  least  as  poor  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  it  to  be. 

When  the  Parisians  have  felt  in- 
clined to  renounce  the  joys  of  the 
dance,  it  may  have  been  that  pessi- 
mism was  only  the  pretext  used  to  hide 
the  fact  that  Madame  was  obliged  to 
close  her  salon  because  it  was  too  ex- 
pensive to  maintain.  The  same  crav- 
ing for  splendor  and  magnificence  is 
still  there — it  increases  day  by  day — 
and  the  number  of  those  capable  of  giv- 
ing  a great  ball  in  good  style,  with  the 
appendage  of  hotel,  supper,  cotillon, 
etc.,  being  very  small,  there  is  nothing 
left  for  the  rest  of  Paris  of  the  vingt-  champagne  between  the 
ii me  siecle  but  to  invent  other  means  to 

attain  the  same  results.  This  has  not  been  difficult ; the  modern 
plan  of  subscription  balls  has  been  found  practicable,  in  letting 
the  many  carry  the  burden  that  was  too  heavy  for  one  to  bear. 
The  great  private  hotels  stand  unused,  but  the  doors  of  the 
caravansary  open  evening  after  evening  to  admit  the  thousands 
and  thousands  going  to  the  subscription  balls.  As  soon  as  the 
young  people  commence  feeling  a craving  for  a dance,  or  as  soon 
as  the  respective  mammas  think  their  daughters  old  enough  to  be 
married,  the  different  families  that  are  acquainted  join  together 
for  the  purpose.  They  try,  if  possible,  to  get  some  lady  in  the 
party,  of  good  social  standing,  to  preside  over  the  festival,  and  in 


24 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


her  name  they  invite  everybody  within  the  circle  of  their  ac- 
quaintance. ff  the  number  of  guests  be  not  sufficient  the  com- 
mittee does  not  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  life  or  antecedents  of 
the  gentlemen  that  send  in  their 
cards.  This  may  sometimes  have 
its  drawbacks.  Pranzini  and  Ma- 
rie Regnault,  for  instance,  met 
each  other  for  the  first  time  at  a 
subscription  ball  in  Hotel  Conti- 
nental. But  this  is  exceptional; 
Madame  always  finds  — if  she 
thinks  it  best  for  her  daughter’s 
or  her  own  sake  — gentlemen 
enough,  of  her  immediate  ac- 
quaintance, to  protect  her  from 
any  danger. 


‘MADAME  ALWAYS  FINDS  GENTLE- 
MEN ENOUGH.  . . 


At  these  balls  Mademoiselle  gets 
here  a chance,  that  she  would  other- 
wise hardly  have,  of  showing  herself 
to  advantage  in  the  proper  way,  and 
many  a young  star,  risen  for  the  first 
time  at  a festival  like  this,  may — 
when  she  hides  herself  in  her  wraps 
with  a little  sigh  at  the  dying  tones 
of  the  waltz — secretly  hope  that  her 
beauty  has  not  shone  in  vain.  With 
the  popularity  of  these  balls  as  an 
example,  it  was  natural  that  the  sub- 
scription balls  on  a large  scale,  the 
great  charity  balls,  should  grow  in 
number.  Their  names  aredegion,  the 

placards  announcing  them  fill  the  streets  of  the  fashionable 
quarter,  and  their  success  is  almost  miraculous.  They  have 


WHEN  SHE  HIDES  HERSELF 
IN  HER  WRAPS.  ...” 


TUB  SUBSCRIPTION  “ ORAND  BAL. 


25 


2 6 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


been  known  to  bring  in  a profit  of  100,000  francs.  These 
balls,  that  used  to  exhibit  a great  deal  of  party  spirit,  now 
comprise  all  classes  of  society.  This  has  enabled  the  direc- 
tors to  add  many  new  attractions  to  their  programme.  The 
charity-balls  have  outgrown  the  commonplace  hotels  and  stepped 
into  much  more  fashionable  quarters.  Le  bal  des  artistes  drama- 
tiques — a festival  to  which  the  presence  of  the  actresses  as  host- 
esses has  proved  a new  power  of  attraction  not  alone  to  the 
gilded  youth  of  Paris,  but  also  to  the  Parisian  ladies  of  all  social 
standings, — is  not  the  only  one  to  which  the  Grand  Op6ra  has 


THE  COMMITTEE  “RECEIVES.” 


shown  its  hospitality.  It  has  even  been  seen  that  the  exclusive 
military  club,  for  the  sake  of  charity,  has  opened  its  doors  to 
civilians.  The  committees  have  become  more  and  more  select, 
and  when— counting  among  their  members  the  most  prominent 
society  ladies  of  Paris  and  the  highest  functionaries  of  the  gov- 
ernment— -they  receive,  standing  on  the  escalier  d'honneur  of  the 
Grand  Opera,  few  have  withstood  their  curiosity  or  inclination, 
but  have  paid  their  20  francs  for  a ticket  and  accepted  the  invi- 
tation. If  the  society  is  a little  mixed  one  can  always  withdraw 
from  the  crowd  and  in  an  aristocratic  party  look  at  it  from  a 
box ; it  is  a sight  well  worth  seeing. 


a? 


28 


PARIS  OP  TO-DAY. 


Terpsichore  has  also  found  many  worshipers  among  the 
lower  classes.  At  the  festivals  of  the  people  the  dancing  is  the 
most  necessary  part  of  the  programme.  Only  think  of  what  they 
do  on  the  anniversary  of  the  Republic.  On  the  14th  of  July,  1790, 
all  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  moved  their  dinner-tables  out  in 
front  of  their  houses  so  that  all  through  the  streets  there  was  one 
long  line  of  white-covered  tables  at  which  the  different  families 


took  their  meals  and  drank  “ a la  majeste  des  peuples,  h la  liberty  & 
la  France .”  In  the  same  way  the  municipalities  of  each  district, 
when  the  great  day  comes,  raise  a stand  for  the  band  on  each 
corner,  and  everybody  dances  to  its  music,  so  that  they  form,  as 
it  were,  a chain  reaching  from  corner  to  corner  all  through  the 
streets,  and,  when  the  midnight  bell  tolls,  this  great  city  is  one 
huge  ball-room,  where  the  people  dance  to  the  honor  of  Liberty 
and  the  Republic. 


DANCING  IN  PARIS. 


t9 


The  dancing-place  is  always  the  center  of  attraction  at  the 
fairs,  and  there  is  no  picnic  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine  where  the 
hand-organs  do  not  strike  up  a dance,  while  at  a popular  wed- 
ding the  dance  is  as  necessary  as  the  excursion  to  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  after  the  ceremony.  Every  restaurant,  even  in  the 
poorest  suburbs,  has  its  salon  pour  noces  and  its  ball-room,  and  the 
evenings  are  few  during  which  they  stand  empty.  But  apart  from 
this,  Paris  has  her  public  ball-rooms.  No  city  in  the  world  has 
as  many  ; their  number  reaches  as  high  as  three  hundred.  The 
Jardin  de  Paris,  in  the  Champs-Elys6es,  has  in  the  course  of  time 


STREET  DANCING  ON  THE  DAY  OF  THE  “ F&TE  NATIONALS.  ” 


changed  its  character  and  offered  new  amusements.  Besides  the 
concerts  there  are  fetes  foraines , dioramas,  puppet-shows,  and 
rope-dancers  ; the  dancing  is  limited  to  performances  given  by 
professionals.  Many  of  the  stars  of  the  ballet  have  commenced 
their  career  in  the  Jardin  de  Paris  and  have  given  it  an  atmo- 
sphere of  ephemeral  splendor  and  success.  But  the  real  temple 
of  Terpsichore  is  still  the  Bullier,  the  former  Closerie  des  Lilas, 
the  well-known  dancing-place  of  the  students,  near  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Michel  on  the  left  bank  of  the  river.  Mimi  Pinson  is  no 
more  queen  there;  Mimi  Pinson  is  dead.  L'ttudiante,  with  the 


3° 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


one  dress  and  the  one  bonnet,  with  her  industry  and  warm  heart, 
is  dead  too  ; those  that  have  taken  her  place  have  more  dresses 
and  less  heart.  The  students  have  given  up  their  exclusiveness, 
and  the  clerk  that  they  used  to  look  down  upon  is  now  their  vis- 
ti-vis.  The  students  are  still  in  majority,  however;  they  feel  at 
home  there,  and  the  bal Bullier  sometimes  shines  in  all  the  splen- 


AT  THE  JARDIN  DE  PARIS. 


dor  of  its  old  days,  brought  back  by  the  overflowing  joy  of  their 
youth.  On  the  right  bank,  near  the  Place  de  la  Republique,  is 
Tivoli  Vauxhall,  that  bears  a close  resemblance  to  the  Bullier; 
the  guests  are  not  quite  the  same,  for  the  real  student  hardly  ever 
crosses  the  Seine,  but  the  character  of  the  place  is  the  same,  in- 
asmuch as  a certain  morality  is  always  maintained.  There  are, 


DANCING  IN  PARIS. 


31 


however,  places  only  tolerated  by  the  police  because  they  are 
the  merest  traps  in  which  to  catch  the  criminals.  Their  cau- 
tiousness succumbs  easiest  to  their  true  Parisian  craving  for  a 
dance,  and  half  of  the  wretches  that  are  caught  have  been  taken 
in  the  ball-rooms.  Among  the  three  hundred  there  are  others 
only  known  in  their  own  quarter,  and  where  the  guests  remind 
one  of  Mimi  Pinson  by  their  hard 
labor  and  the  freshness  and  joy 
with  which  pleasures  are  received 
when  once  in  a while  they  offer 
themselves.  High  up  on  the  peak 
of  Montmartre,  near  the  Galette- 
mill,  lies  the  Bal  des  Brouillards. 

The  guests  are  striving  young 
artists  and  girls  from  the  laun- 
dries, all  richer  in  youth  and  love 
than  in  money.  Hunger  and 
thirst  take  each  other  by  the 
hand,  but  what  an  ecstasy  of  joy, 
what  a sublime  hope  and  confi- 
dence in  the  future.  Perhaps,  de- 
spite the  names,  it  is  no  path  of 
roses  that  brings  the  young  joiners 
from  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine 
workshops  to  the  Casino  des  Fleurs 
or  the  Bal  des  Rosilres,  in  the 
Rue  de  Charenton,  but  they  are 
ready  to  enjoy  themselves  so  much 
more  after  their  hard  work.  And 
at  the  Musette  balls  of  the  people 
from  Auvergne,  this  is  still  more 
the  case.  When  they  have 
sawed  wood,  carried  water,  sold 
coals,  or  polished  floors  all  through  the  day,  they  come  to- 
gether in  the  evening  and  dance  as  they  used  to,  to  the 
sound  of  the  bagpipes,  among  their  mountains  in  Auvergne. 
In  the  same  way  the  Alsatians  have  their  bal  du  grand  Turc 
on  the  Boulevard  Barbfes,  where  their  national  costume  is  often 
seen.  So  in  all  corners  of  Paris,  there  are  places  like  these 


fMdUtj  )l 

ft  ' 

OUADRIUf 

L'  m 

3 2 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


where  the  regular  patrons  are  a class  of  people  belonging  to 
the  same  professions  or  to  the  same  sphere  in  life  ; everybody 
can  enter,  but  as  a rule  they  preserve  their  own  special  char- 


HIGH  LIFE  AT  THE  “ BARRIERE.  ” 


acter.  When  the  time  of  the  “ great  ball  ” comes,  the  music 
from  these  places  mingles  with  that  of  the  Faubourgs  and  the 
great  hotels,  and  the  waltz-music  once  more  floats  over  Paris  so 
that  the  whole  atmosphere  seems  to  vibrate  with  the  sound. 


a while  the  people  living  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  would 
see  them  pass  by  in  Indian  file, — or  as  they  called  it,  le 
monome, — on  their  way  to  Mine.  Moreaux’s,  where  they  tried  to 
strengthen  themselves  for  the  new  series  of  lectures  with  a chinois  & 
Veau  de  vie.  Once  in  a while  even  these  very  lectures  would  attract 
some  attention,  and  carriages  stood  in  a row  in  the  little  narrow 
streets  while  the  ladies  who  had  left  their  cosy  boudoirs  were 
listening  to  some  philosophical  speaker  then  in  vogue.  But 
in  spite  of  this  the  student  still  lived  in  obscurity.  The  exhibi- 
tion in  ’78  brought  with  it  many  changes  in  the  appearance  of 
the  city,  and  this  seemed  to  give  a mortal  wound  to  the  origi- 
nality of  the  Latin  Quarter.  In  order  to  make  room  for  the 

33 


34 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


Boulevard  St.  Germain,  the  chief  thoroughfare  from  the  Bastille 
to  the  Tuileries,  from  Vincennes  to  Versailles,  it  was  necessary 
to  destroy  thousands  of  little  human  nests  around  which  industry 
and  love  were  hovering,  and  the  students  were  scattered  abroad 
like  so  many  homeless,  frightened  birds.  Their  old  vie  de  boheme 
did  not  seem  in  harmony  with  the  new  boulevard  life.  Their  long 
Merovingian  hair,  short  jackets,  and  wide  trousers  were  all  out  of 
keeping  with  their  new  surroundings,  and  they  were  obliged  to 
submit  to  the  black  coat,  the  high  hat,  and  the  golden  bamboo 
cane.  When  they  parted  with  their  flowing  locks  they  gave  up 
their  last  romantic  notions,  to  become  as  correct  and  sober  as 
the  time  in  which  they  lived.  The  student  became  fin  de  sifole 
like  everybody  else,  and,  like  everybody  else,  was  obliged  to  go 
through  the  purgatory  of  pessimism  before  he  reached  the  light  of 
vingti'eme  siecle.  This  seems  for  him  to  have  dawned  with  the 
Association  G£nerale  des  Etudiants.  A riot  between  the  students 
and  some  arrogant  citizens  ended  in  being  of  a political  char- 
acter, and  some  of  the  radical  papers  attacked,  the  students  and 
called  them  the  sons  of  the  rotten  bourgeoisie.  To  avenge  the 
insult,  they  arranged  a meeting  in  the  only  place  well  known  to 
all,  the  ball-room  of  the  Bullier.  After  having  decided  upon  the 
matter  in  hand,  it  was  proposed  to  consider  the  advantages  of  a 
corporation  of  the  students.  A committee  was  appointed  for 
the  purpose  of  working  out  the  plan,  and  they  soon  laid  down 
the  by-laws  of  V association  gtndrale.  The  aim  of  this  association 
was  not  alone  to  create  a feeling  of  unity  among  the  students, 
and  to  facilitate  their  intercourse,  but  to  improve  also  their 
studies,  and  especially  prevent  them  from  growing  one-sided  in 
their  pursuit  of  special  studies,  and  enlarge  the  horizon  of  their 
intellect  through  the  intercourse  with  those  that  had  different 
gifts  and  interests  from  their  own.  While  they  possessed  the 
usual  hopefulness  of  youth,  they  did  not  have  the  necessary 
amount  of  money  to  realize  their  air-castles.  They  had  to  com- 
mence with  almost  nothing.  A contribution  enabled  them  to 
hire  a very  small  apartment,  in  the  rear  of  a house  in  the  Rue 
des  Ecoles,  but  the  only  signs  of  the  so-much-wished-for  library 
and  reading-room  were  a dozen  books  and  a few  papers  sent  them 
gratuitously  by  the  editors.  A woman,  who  came  to  sweep  and 
dust,  was  the  only  servant.  It  had  been  hard  enough  for  the  com- 


MODERN  PARISIAN  STUDENTS. 


35 


mittee  to  have  to  buy  her  a broom  and  a duster ; the  smallest  ex- 
pense was  at  the  time  enough  to  alarm  each  and  all  of  the  mem- 
bers. One  day  the  duster  disappeared,  and  there  was  a universal 
excitement.  Its  wielder’s  position  was  no  longer  secure  ; the  first 
opportunity  was  taken  to  send  away  such  a spendthrift.  The 
students  do  not  seem  to  have  been  very  comfortable  even  then. 
Different  items  in  the  protocol  indicate  the  state  of  affairs  of 
that  period.  One  complains  of  having  found  all  the  doors  wide 
open,  and  nobody  there  to  look  after  the  place.  Another  is  out- 
raged at  having  found  the  gas  extinguished  immediately  after  din- 
ner, when  he  came  with  the  intention  of  studying,  and  a third  calls 
attention  to  the  fact  that  he  has  been  obliged  to  put  it  out  in  the 
morning,  after  it  had  evidently  been  burning  all  night.  But  there 
were  a number  of  energetic  people  in  the  association  that  never 
tired  of  working  for  its  success.  No  stone  was  left  unturned  ; 
French  celebrities  sent  in  their  names  in  order  to  be  entered  as 
honorary  members  ; publishers  and  authors  sent  books.  Victor 
Hugo  had  been  asked  to  give  some  of  his  ; “ I will  give  you  one,” 
he  answered,  “ but  I will  write  a dedication  in  it,  which  will  com- 
pensate for  all  the  others,”  and  he  sent  them  “ Ltgcnde  des  Sitcles” 
and  wrote  in  it  “ From  Victor  Hugo  to  the  students  of  Paris.” 
The  professors  were  a little  reserved  at  first,  fearing  that  the 
students  would  be  apt  to  attract  attention  by  their  youthful  eag- 
erness and  turbulence.  Some  well-arranged  festivities  in  honor 
of  the  great  departed,  pilgrimages  to  their  graves,  and  well-con- 
ducted meetings  helped  to  overthrow  their  prejudices.  After  a 
while  Pasteur,  Renan,  and  even  the  president  of  the  University, 
Gerard,  presided  over  the  ceremonies,  and  a few  years  later  the 
difficulties  of  this  early  period  were  absolutely  conquered. 

The  association  counts  at  the  present  time  over  three  thou- 
sand members,  among  whom  are  many  of  the  professors,  and  it 
disposes  of  a revenue  of  several  thousand  francs  a year,  while  its 
quarters  are  much  better.  After  having  occupied  for  some  time 
the  one  story  in  the  rear  they  rented  all  the  stories  and  finally 
the  first  floor  of  the  neighboring  house,  where  the  library  and 
reading-room  were  arranged.  In  one  of  these  houses  there  is  a 
caft  on  the  ground-floor,  where  the  students  have  a right  to  some 
of  the  rooms,  and  on  festive  occasions  to  all  of  them,  while  a 
restaurant  in  the  other  house  gives  them  the  advantages  of  a 


36 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


table-d'hdte.  They  have  not  yet  reached  the  ideal  of  comfort, 
but  they  have  done  as  much  as  their  means  allowed  them,  and 
the  place  is  well  situated,  within  a few  steps  of  La  Sorbonne  and 
College  de  France,  in  the  very  center  of  the  Latin  Quarter, 

which  now  extends  beyond  the 
Boulevard  St.  Michel.  Consid- 
ering the  judicious  way  in  which 
they  have  acted,  they  may  rea- 
sonably hope  soon  to  be  able 
to  build  their  own  quarters. 
Good  common-sense  seems  to 
be  the  true  criterion  of  the 
Parisian  student,  much  more 
so  than  his  black  velvet  “ Tam 
O’Shanter,”  the  border  of  which 
has  a different  color  for  each 
faculty.  The  association  be- 
came at  first  almost  an  annex 
of  the  University.  There  was 
lecture  upon  lecture  partly 
given  by  the  members,  partly 
by  the  professors,  who  were 
continually  asked  to  further 
enlarge  and  explain  the  Uni- 
versity lectures ; there  were 
debates,  and  attempts  were 
made  by  the  students  to  pre- 
pare each  other  for  the  exami- 
nations ; in  short,  there  was 
such  an  atmosphere  of  earnest- 
ness, that  the  professors  at  last 
stepped  in  to  remind  them  of 
their  youth,  and  advise  them 
not  to  lay  too  much  claim  to 
the  oratorical  powers  of  their  teachers,  as  they  were  already  well 
taxed,  and  finally  to  ask  them  to  put  a limit  to  their  own  lec- 
tures, considering  that  there  were  still  quite  a number  of  pro- 
fessors in  France.  This  was  all  complied  with.  The  meetings 
became  of  a more  sociable  order ; music  and  amateur  theatricals 


THE  LAW  STUDENT. 


MODERN  PARISIAN  STUDENTS. 


37 


were  introduced.  Not  being  endowed  with  very  good  voices, 
the  students  attached  more  importance  to  instrumental  music, 
and  have  a well-conducted  band,  some  of  the  members  of  which 
are  very  talented.  Dramatic  art  is  in  a flourishing  state.  They 


are  connected  with  the  Conservatory,  and  can  count  upon  the 
pupils  for  their  cast.  As  playwrights  they  were  not  successful ; 
only  a short  time  ago,  Xanroff  taught  his  colleagues  to  choose 
their  subjects  from  their  own  life  and  sphere,  and  the  new  efforts 


38 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


show  so  much  talent  that  they  may  probably  give  rise  to  a 
French  academical  literature.  All  this  makes  their  life  very 
different  from  what  it  used  to  be.  In  the  old  days  it  was  not 
profitable  for  one’s  sleep  to  live  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  or 
thereabout.  If  you  went  to  bed  before  midnight,  you  were  sure 
to  be  awakened  at  that  time  by  all  sorts  of  unearthly  noises  ; 
there  was  hardly  an  evening  when  these  sons  of  Minerva  did  not 
walk  in  procession  through  the  streets.  Now  it  is  different,  and 
in  spite  of  the  new  life  that  pulsates  there,  the  Latin  Quarter  is 
one  of  the  most  quiet  in  Paris.  Even  the  well-known  “ Beu- 
glant  ” haunts  are  dying  out.  They  used  to  witness  the  joys  of 
the  old  college  life,  and  at  the  vocal  concerts  given  there,  the 
strongest  accompaniment  would  be  the  noise  produced  by  the 
combined  uses  of  canes,  heels,  screams,  and  occasionally  the  pro- 
longed howls  of  cats  and  dogs.  Often  the  singer  would  stop  con- 
vulsed with  laughter,  and  the  musicians  would,  in  spite  of  the  des- 
perate efforts  with  which  the  leader  was  swinging  his  baton,  laugh 
till  the  instruments  fell  out  of  their  hands.  The  police  could  do 
nothing  to  repress  the  merriment,  and  nothing  short  of  a riot 
could  make  a policeman  interfere  with  the  liberty  of  these 
sanctuaries. 

Now  peace  has  descended  upon  them.  The  “Chalet”  oppo- 
site the  Bullier  has  disappeared,  and  its  successor,  Folies-Cluny, 
is  of  another  character.  It  is  a hall  of  small  proportions,  the 
ceiling  supported  by  a row  of  columns,  at  the  end  of  which  is  a 
small  stage,  where  there  is  just  room  enough  for  a piano  to 
accompany  the  divine  singers.  When  the  owner,  Pere  Adolphe, 
has  served  the  demanded  Mazagrans  and  “bocks,”  he  sometimes 
throws  aside  his  napkin  to  go  up  on  the  stage.  For  twelve  sous 
you  can  drink,  smoke,  and  listen  to  fragments  of  operas  and 
operettas.  There  are  more  laborers  and  tradesmen  to  be  seen 
here  than  students,  and  in  the  brasserie  a femme  the  latter  are 
very  few  now  ; /’ Atudiante  was  there  dethroned  by  a more  modern 
Hebe.  Her  sun  has  set  now,  since  new  stars  have  risen  in  the 
Latin  heavens.  They  are  very  different  from  that  of  Mimi 
Pinson,  and  strictly  vingtieme  siecle ; it  is  no  more  Uttudiante 
that  shares  the  student’s  pleasures,  it  is  V ttudiante  who  studies 
in  good  earnest.  She  has  made  her  entry  comparatively  late  in 
Paris.  France  is  not  the  cradle  of  woman’s  emancipation,  and 


MODERN  PARISIAN  STUDENTS. 


39 


never  will  be  its  promised  land.  In  the  better  classes,  a woman 
is  not  expected  to  support  herself;  she  lives  to  love,  to  bring  up 
her  children,  and  take  care  of  her  home.  On  the  other  hand, 
Paris,  always  susceptible  to  new  ideas,  could  not  help  assisting 
the  movement.  The  young  girls  who  had  a taste  for  studies 


“just  room  enough  for  a piano.  . . .” 

which  they  could  not  pursue  in  their  own  country  came  to  Paris, 
where  the  high  schools  were  known  to  be  liberal.  When  the 
universities  of  Russia  were  closed  to  women  for  political  reasons 
more  than  seventy  came  to  Paris  in  the  course  of  one  year. 
Others  would  come  from  across  the  Channel,  and  still  others  from 


40 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  especially  from  South  America. 
Even  Turkish  lady-students  were  seen  in  the  lecture-rooms  of 
/’ Ecole  de  mtdecine.  When  Charcot  had  bid  the  first  French 
woman-doctor,  Mile.  Schultze,  welcome  in  the  ranks  of  the  pro- 
fession, the  passion  for  stud- 
ies attacked  the  fair  sex  of 
France.  There  are  now 
many  hundred  female  stu- 
dents registered  regularly  at 
the  Parisian  high  schools. 
They  generally  visit  l' Ecole 
de  mtdecine , but  also  the  Sor- 
bonne,  and  since  Mile.  Pope- 
lin  came  into  possession  of 
her  diploma  from  the  law 
school  and  claimed  to  be  reg- 
istered with  the  practising 
lawyers,  l' Ecole  de  droit  has 
also  been  added  to  the  list. 
There  is,  moreover,  an  end- 
less number  of  young  girls 
coming  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  to  devote  themselves 
to  art  studies  which  require 
as  much  time  and  earnest 
J labor  as  the  sciences  do. 

t The  students  treat  these 

new  colleagues  differently 
from  I'ttudiante  of  old  days. 
The  Russian  students  had  a 
way  of  their  own : five  or 
six  of  them  generally  took 
a small  apartment  together. 

One  room  was  bed-room  for 
the  men,  the  other  for  the  girls,  and  the  third  common  dining- 
room and  study.  Even  the  most  conscientious  concierge  made 
no  objections  where  the  party  was  Russian ; they  were  under- 
stood to  be  different  from  Parisians,  and  not  susceptible  to  the 
enticements  of  Cupid,  at  least  not  during  their  college  life.  For 


THE  LAW  “ &TUDIANTE. 


MODERN  PARISIAN  STUDENTS. 


4* 


students  with  less  Siberian  blood  in  their  veins  this  arrangement 
could  not  be  thought  of.  The  companionship  of  their  new  col- 
leagues seems  to  give  the  students  a better  opinion  of  women. 
It  teaches  them  respect,  and  respect  is  the  first  step  on  the  road 


to  virtue.  Much  fun  has  been  made  of  the  old-fashioned,  sensi- 
ble students  of  the  day;  but  it  is  misplaced.  They  had  been 
born  at  a critical  moment  of  French  life,  when  the  country  was 
broken  up  by  war,  when  there  was  confusion  in  all  ideas  and 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


doctrines,  and  when  everybody  doubted  everything.  They  may 
not  have  the  great  passions  of  the  past  generations,  but  they 
have  a virtue  not  to  be  despised,  and  they  are  earnest  in  their 
work.  All  their  teachers  confirm  this,  and  they  have  a realiza- 


tion of  the  necessity  of  labor.  The  new  Sorbonne  has  risen  to 
prove  it. 

The  Sorbonne  had  been  the  pride  of  France  through  great 
periods  of  its  history;  but  during  the  last  part  of  the  Empire  it 


MODERN  PARISIAN  STUDENTS. 


43 


had  lost  some  of  its  power.  The  attention  of  the  public  was 
captivated  by  frivolities  and  in  the  first  days  of  the  Republic 
by  the  severe  fight  for  existence.  After  the  war  the  lectures 
were  taken  up  again,  but  did  not  exercise  the  same  influence  as 
before.  While  the  schools  of  law  and  medicine  had  their 
registered  students  and  prepared  them  for  their  professions, 
“ La  faculty  des  lettres  et  des  sciences  ” had  only  a disconnected 
audience,  of  which  the  professors  did  not  even  know  a single 
person  by  name.  The  seeds  of  knowledge  were  sowed  by  the 
wayside,  and  it  was  a mere  chance  if  one  happened  to  fall  in 
good  ground.  Professors  and  students  stood  in  no  personal 
relation  to  each  other,  and  to  enter  the  University  as  a teacher 
it  was  sufficient  to  have  graduated  from  some  high  school. 
This  is  still  partly  the  case,  but  it  has  become  a custom  that 
those  who  choose  this  career  give  a proof  of  their  abilities  by 
taking  their  doctor’s  degree.  The  earnestness  of  the  students 
of  to-day  showed  itself  once  more.  Those  attending  the 
schools,  drawn  by  the  wish  to  generalize  their  knowledge, 
followed  the  students  belonging  to  the  faculty,  and  soon  felt 
themselves  attached  to  La  Sorbonne.  A new  set  of  prominent 
professors  have  simultaneously  appeared,  and  with  them  the 
old  glory  has  returned.  There  are  those  among  the  profes- 
sors who  remember  the  time  when  eight  students  were  the 
regular  number  registered  at  the  philosophical  faculty  of  Paris; 
there  are  now  twelve  hundred.  It  is  in  a measure  a com- 
plete revolution.  It  has  not  only  been  necessary  to  increase 
the  number  of  professors,  but  also  to  establish,  beside  the 
public  lectures,  several  classes  that  have  contributed  to  bring 
teacher  and  pupil  in  a nearer  relationship  to  each  other.  Libra- 
ries, reading-rooms,  and  laboratories  have  been  founded.  The 
old  building  became  too  small  in  every  way ; at  first  there  were 
provisional  annexes  rented ; but  their  day  has  passed,  and  with 
the  new  Sorbonne  Paris  has  inaugurated  a new  Latin  Quarter, 
worthy  of  the  world’s  metropolis.  At  the  festivities  given  to 
celebrate  this  event,  the  Parisian  students  armed  themselves  for 
the  battle  of  work.  They  do  not  want  to  bury  themselves  in 
their  books,  but  will  on  the  other  hand  not  disgrace  the  worthy 
Latin  Quarter  by  any  unseemly  gayety.  The  young  people  of 
to-day,  those  who  will  be  the  ilite  of  the  nation,  and  who  will  in 


44 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


time  understand  how  to  prevent  or  to  lead  a social  revolution, 
must  needs  fortify  themselves  early  with  a clear  understanding 
and  a serene  calmness.  The  way  in  which  the  French  students 
have  asserted  their  rights  and  reminded  Paris  of  their  existence, 
indicates  that  they  are  fully  conscious  of  this. 


MOKE  BOOK-WORMS. 


V. 

Working  Paris. 


OCTOBER  has  come.  With  the  tribunal 
and  lawyers,  the  last  marauders,  the 
serious  Paris'  has  returned  to  its  home. 
Colleges  and  lycdes  have  reopened  their 
doors  to  the  studious  youths  after  a sum- 
mer vacation  of  two  months.  These  captive 
birds  are  followed  by  the  free  worshipers  of 
art  and  science  ; the  lecture-rooms  are  once 
more  crowded  with  large  audiences,  the 
studios  begin  to  fill,  artists  have  come  back 
from  woods  and  fields  loaded  with  sketches, 
but  full  of  longing  for  this  peculiar  excit- 
ing atmosphere  that  alone  can  collect  the  scattered  impres- 
sions and  give  them  harmony  and  life.  Even  the  literary  world 
seeks  the  city  ; the  peace  of  the  country  homes  has  given  rest  to 
the  brain,  but  Paris  only  can  excite  the  imagination  and  bring 
forth  the  ideas.  The  whole  staff  of  workers  comes  back,  and  the 
October  aspect  of  the  city  bears  the  impress  of  it.  The  nobility 
are  as  yet  engaged  in  the  pleasures  of  the  hunt  at  their  chateaux, 
and  the  long  train  of  their  slaves  and  imitators  hide  in  some 
remote  corner,  because  it  is  not  fashionable  to  come  back  so 
early.  Only  the  season  of  industry  has  commenced,  and  does 
for  a time  make  Paris  appear  not  perhaps  the  tout  Paris  of  the 
great  days,  but  that  which  nevertheless  forms  the  flower  of  it. 
The  Janus-face  of  Paris  in  these  quiet  autumnal  weeks  does  not 
have  the  coquettish  smile  and  contagious  laughter  of  the  face 
belonging  to  the  mondaine  luxury  and  pleasure  life,  but  neither 
does  it  have  its  false  varnish.  It  has  the  coolness  but  also  the 
clear  beauty  of  October,  and  the  less  we  see  of  it,  the  greater 
the  reason  to  guard  the  impression.  For,  if  Paris  be  the  place 


45 


46 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


where  people  amuse  themselves  more  than  anywhere  else,  there 
is  on  the  other  hand  no  place  where  as  much  earnest  and  perse- 
vering work  is  done  as  here.  The  exciting  competition,  which 
with  every  minute  forces  the  faculties  and  the  energy  to  intensi- 
fied efforts  in  order  not  to  be  left  behind  by  one’s  numerous 
rivals,  is  of  course  the  great  incitement  to  industry.  It  is  not 
for  their  pleasure  that  the  business  men,  year  "in  year  out,  sum- 
mer and  winter,  stand  in  their  shops  to  wait  for  customers  often 
until  midnight  without  giving  themselves  any  leisure.  They  are 
obliged  to  do  it,  if  they  do  not  want  to  submit  to  the  inevitable 
fate  of  being  killed  by  the  great  magazins  de  nouveantts.  When 
the  laborer  rises  at  five  o’clock  to  walk  four  miles  to  a place 
hoping  to  find  work,  and  sees  the  foreman  make  the  sign  he 
knows  only  too  well,  that  forces  him  to  walk  hour  after  hour 
until  at  last  he  gets  an  opportunity  to  work  like  a galley-slave  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day,  it  is  all  because  he  has  at  home  a 
wife  and  children  who  would  starve  if  he  did  not  bring  them  the 
few  sous  he  can  earn  by  his  toil. 

It  is  very  often  the  same  thing  with  these  actors  en  vedette  in 
Parisian  life,  whose  positions  are  looked  upon  with  such  envious 
eyes  without  a thought  given  to  what  it  has  cost  to  attain  them, 
and  what  it  costs  day  by  day  to  maintain  them.  Talent  can  in 
Paris  reach  higher  than  in  almost  any  other  place,  but  only  when 
it  goes  hand  in  hand  with  a temperament  that  can  withstand  all 
and  a stalwart  energy.  Sardou  sat  year  after  year  in  a garret 
without  a fire,  and  spent  day  and  night  writing  continuations  to 
first  acts  of  Scribe’s  comedies,  in  this  way  to  compare  his  work 
to  the  masters  and  learn.  Albert  Wolff  stood  in  the  streets  half- 
starved  before  Alexandre  Dumas  made  him  his  secretary ; Zola 
was  paid  a few  francs  to  spend  New  Year’s  day  going  from  door 
to  door  leaving  visiting-cards  for  people,  and  has  gone  from 
paper  to  paper  with  his  manuscripts  to  be  shown  away  at  each 
place.  A short  time  ago,  one  of  the  best-known  chroniqueurs , 
Albert  Mortier,  the  Monsieur  de  l' orchestre  of  the  Figaro , died  at 
the  age  of  forty-odd  years.  His  life  was  representative  of  many 
thousand  others.  He  came  to  Paris  an  awkward  Dutchman, 
who  had  run  away  from  the  grocery-store  where  his  parents  had 
put  him.  Even  the  cheapest  small  papers  had  at  first  laughed  at 
his  attempts,  but  he  had  persevered  until  he  got  a firm  footing, 


WORKING  PARIS. 


47 


and  even  then  he  continued  to  toil.  For  thirteen  years  he  wrote 
daily  his  Soiree  Parisienne.  At  last  he  became  rich  and  was 
able  to  realize  the  dreams  of  his  youth.  On  the  river  banks  near 
Bougival,  this  Paradise  for  Parisians,  he  built  a villa.  The 
Dutch  Jew-boy  became  the  representative  of  the  Paris  esprit 
par  excellence , and  the  first  stars  of  dramatic  art  disputed  each 
other  the  honor  of  being  applauded  on  the  stage  of  the  little 
theatre  in  his  park.  He  was  an  envied  man.  To  be  able  to  live 
in  this  way  and  with  so  little  trouble  ! He  only  wrote  a comedy 
once  in  a while,  and  for  the  rest  merely  that  little  chronique 
every  day  in  the  Figaro  ! It  could  be  read  so  easily,  it  must  be 
written  easily  too,  people  thought.  Yes,  it  was  done  so  easily 
that  it  killed  this  robust  Dutchman  at  the  age  when  life  only 
begins  for  most  people  ; for  it  was  nothing  but  his  work  that  did 
kill  him.  It  was  these  thirteen  years  during  which  brain  and 
nerves  had  never  been  at  rest,  when  he  had  to  invent  some- 
thing new  every  day,  not  with  unlimited  use  of  his  imagination 
or  choice  of  subject,  but  with  a forced  variation  of  a theme  that 
was  perpetually  the  same.  For  five  thousand  days,  five  thou- 
sand articles  one  after  another  about  the  narrow  life  before  the 
footlights  and  in  the  greenroom,  and  continually  with  un- 
wearied freshness  and  immutable  wit — for  woe  unto  him  if  it  fell 
off,  his  whole  career  could  be  spoiled  by  the  indisposition  of  an 
hour.  Such  was  this  easy  work,  a Sisyphus  labor  that  looks 
like  a dolce  far  niente.  And  such  it  is,  not  only  in  this  case,  but 
in  thousands  of  these  dazzling  social  successes  that  shine  and 
tempt,  and  can  only  be  reached  by  a way  of  fire,  and  whose 
splendor  can  only  be  maintained  by  a burning  process  of  brain, 
heart,  and  nerves,  endured  by  only  a very  few  as  long  as  thirteen 
years. 

Even  where  one  is  not  forced  to  make  a virtue  of  necessity, 
there  is  found  much  industry  in  Paris.  The  stimulus  of  the 
local  conditions  is  so  powerful  that  it  has  filled  the  very  air  of  the 
city  with  a work-inspiring  element,  the  influence  of  which  asserts 
itself  even  where  there  is  no  longer  a reason  for  competitive 
strife.  People  are  under  an  enchantment  that  is  stronger  than 
their  natural  inclination  to  idleness.  All  through  his  life  every 
Parisian  has  dreamed  of  the  glorious  moment  when  he  can  shake 
the  work-dust  off  himself  and  live  in  retirement  on  his  money 


48 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


and  peacefully  cultivate  his  little  garden  in  the  banlieue.  Yet 
the  cafe  proprietor,  a millionaire,  stands  there  daily  with  his 
napkin  over  his  arm,  waiting  on  every  guest  who  calls  him;  and 
the  grocer,  who  owns  half  of  the  street  in  which  he  lives,  con- 
tinues to  sell  lettuce  for  two  sous  in  a shop  without  fresh  air 
and  light ; and  the  tailor  who  might  drive  four-in-hand  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  runs  from  one  end  of  town  to  the  other  to  try 
the  clothes  on  his  customers.  If  any  one  asks  them  why  they 
do  it  the  answer  is  always  the  same,  they  would  like  to  stop, 
but  they  cannot,  it  is  stronger  than  their  own  nature.  Every 
day  they  determine  that  the  hour  of  rest  has  come^and  every 
day  the  Paris  air  adds  fuel  to  the  fire  of  their  inclination  for 
work,  until  at  last  the  toil  kills  them.  It  is  the  same  in  all 
classes  of  society,  with  the  unknown  people  of  every-day  life  and 
with  the  dite. 

Pailleron,  for  instance,  is  a millionaire  ; he  lives  on  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  quays  in  a large,  luxurious,  and  artistically 
arranged  house  of  his  own.  But  when  he  writes  his  plays, — 
and,  as  a rule,  he  has  hardly  finished  one  before  he  commences 
another, — he  runs  away  from  all  this  splendor  and  shuts  him- 
self up  in  a garret  which  he  has  hired  of  the  chemist  Dumas,  in 
a quiet  street  on  the  left  bank  in  a still  more  quiet  house.  His 
own  rooms  seem  too  beautiful  for  him  to  work  in,  the  luxury 
disturbs  him ; but  up  there  in  his  empty  garret,  where  he  has 
only  a table,  a chair,  and  a little  square  window  through  which 
he  can  see  the  blue  sky,  he  feels  all  the  energy  of  his  twenty 
years  return,  and  he  works  as  he  used  to  when  he  was  only  a 
clerk  in  a lawyer’s  office  with  a salary  of  thirty  francs  a month, 
and  when,  to  add  to  his  meager  income,  he  actually  wrote  the 
little  poem  for  the  dentist,  which  he  afterward  put  in  “ Le  monde 
ok  Ion  s' ennuie."  In  his  own  house  he  cannot  possibly  escape  all 
sociability,  and  when  he  works  he  must  be  so  undisturbed,  that 
he  even  sends  his  wife  and  daughter,  whom  he  adores,  out  into 
the  country.  But  in  his  garret  he  does  not  exist  for  the  world  ; 
the  concierge  has  received  his  orders  and  assures  everybody  that 
he  has  not  seen  the  author  at  all  that  day.  At  nine  o’clock 
Pailleron  sits  down  at  his  desk.  He  carries  his  lunch  with  him 
and  does  not  stir  from  the  place  till  five  in  the  afternoon.  Litera- 
ture, he  writes  to  a friend,  will  eventually  be  a horror  to  him,  the 


WORKING  PARIS. 


49 


theater  a terror,  a piece  of  white  paper  make  his  head  feel  dizzy, 
and  the  smell  of  ink  sicken  him. 

It  is  this  indefatigable  industry  through  long  years,  this 
finding  for  each  speech  and  each  brilliant  fancy  the  most  fin- 
ished form  of  expression,  this  enormous  diligence  in  the  com- 


EDOUARD  PAILLERON. 


position  of  the  merest  trifles,  that  makes  his  works  masterpieces. 
Pailleron  is,  however,  by  no  means  an  exception  ; almost  all  his 
colleagues  of  Parisian  celebrities  work  as  he  does.  It  is  as  if  the 
author’s  need  and  energy  for  work  increased  with  every  step 
forward.  Zola  rises  at  seven  o’clock  in  the  morning,  sits  down 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


s« 

at  his  desk  immediately ; at  half-past  one  he  interrupts  his 
work  to  take  lunch  ; at  three  he  commences  again  and  continues 
until  eight.  It  is  as  regular  as  a clockwork.  Even  after  dinner 
he  does  sometimes  take  it  up  again  if  he  has  anything  especial 
on  hand.  It  is  in  this  way  that  through  many  years  he  has  been 
able  to  write,  besides  his  two  voluminous  novels  a year,  a daily 
article  for  the  newspaper  Semaphore  in  Marseilles,  a weekly 
chronique  or  criticism  to  a Parisian  paper,  and  a long  essay  every 
month  to  a Russian  magazine.  Even  those  who  do  not,  as  Zola, 

feel  themselves  to  have  a 
great  literary  mission  to 
which  the  sacrifice  of  one’s 
life  comes  quite  naturally, 
even  these  lead  an  existence 
of  the  very  same  order. 
Georges  Ohnet’s  Maitre  de 
Forges  has  in  the  course  of 
two  years  reached  over  two 
hundred  editions,  and  at  the 
same  time  Serge  Panine  and 
Comtesse  Sarah  reached 
almost  fifty.  An  ordinary 
Parisian  edition  is  two 
thousand  copies.  It  is  then 
over  a million  books  that 
Ohnet  has  sent  out  into 
the  world  with  these  three 
novels.  Even  if  he  had  only 
received  the  lowest  price, 
fifty  centimes  a copy,  they 
would  have  brought  him  half  a million  francs  ; and  in  their  dram- 
atized forms  Serge  Panine  and  the  Ironmaster  have  brought  him 
still  more.  One  would  think  that  he  might  with  good  conscience 
take  a little  rest  after  all  these  laurels  and  money ; but  the  Paris 
air  does  not  allow  this.  He  is  like  Zola — at  his  desk  at  seven,  and 
only  leaves  it  during  the  few  hours  he  gives  to  his  family.  His 
father  was  an  architect,  his  mother  still  owns  several  houses  in 
the  banlieue.  All  the  time  left  him  from  his  novels  and  dramas, 
he  gives  to  the  management  of  these  houses,  and  he  is  said  to 


GEORGES  OHNET. 


WORKING  PARIS. 


51 


have  talents  in  this  direction  that  rival  his  literary  gifts.  His 
only  diversion  apart  from  these  patriarchal  pleasures  is  to  hunt 
rabbits  on  a little  property  that  he  has  hired  near  Rouen.  His 


OCTAVE  FEUILLET. 


private  life  is  quiet,  and  he  is,  in  spite  of  the  great  popularity 
of  his  books,  slightly  connected  with  the  lion-hunting  Paris. 


52 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


Alexandre  Dumas,  on  the  statement  of  a stranger  that  he 
spent  most  of  his  evenings  in  the  theatre,  declared  that  he  went 
there  once  a year  to  see  how  his  own  pieces  were  played.  “ And 
those  written  by  others  ? ” the  foreigner  asked. — “ I don’t  see 
them  at  all,”  answered  Dumas.  “ I think  I am  of  more  use  writ- 
ing plays  than  looking  at  those  others  have  written  ; and  one 
cannot  find  time  for  both.”  This  seems  to  be  the  motto  of  all 
French  literary  celebrities.  They  are  not  society  .people,  al- 
though of  course  acquainted  with  the  mondaine  world  since  they 
are  able  to  picture  it  so  excellently,  but  they  look  at  it  like  mere 
spectators  once  in  a while  when  it  is  absolutely  necessary,  and 
only  seek  it  for  the  sake  of  studying  it.  The  more  quiet  and 
retired  from  the  world  they  can  be,  the  more  contented  they  are. 
Octave  Feuillet,  whose  novels  would  lead  us  to  think  him  a soci- 
ety man  par  excellence , living  in  the  salons  of  the  aristocracy,  is 
for  ever  shunning  the  society  of  men.  While  he  still  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  year  in  the  country  at  Saint  Lo,  and  only 
came  to  Paris  for  a few  winter  months,  he  nearly  ruined  himself 
with  his  mania  for  renting  all  the  houses  around  him  so  that  he 
might  be  sure  of  never  being  troubled  by  seeing  neighbors. 
Since  he  has  come  to  Paris  he  has  fortunately  arranged  himself 
so  that  his  inclination  for  solitude  can  be  satisfied  in  a cheaper 
way.  He  has  found  near  the  Luxembourg  Palace  a little  quiet 
home  almost  hidden  among  the  houses  that  surround  it.  The 
large,  somber  rooms  connected  with  each  other  by  dark  corri- 
dors have  tinted  glass  windows  preventing  all  view  of  the  outer 
world.  When  he  leaves  the  house  it  is  only  to  go  to  some' quiet 
nook  in  the  Palace  garden.  And  in  this  home,  to  which  no  sound 
of  the  buzzing  Parisian  life  can  reach,  he  lives*among  his  art  col- 
lections so  to  speak,  alone  with  his  wife  and  his  books.  They 
only  see  a few  friends  in  their  home,  and  hardly  ever  go  out. 
Emile  Augier  answered  once,  when  he  was  asked  for  some  auto- 
biographical notes : “ I was  born  in  1820  ; since  then  nothing  has 
happened  to  me.”  His  life  was  that  of  his  plays  ; he  had  such 
a horror  of  being  discussed  as  to  his  own  personality  that  when 
his  completed  works  were  published,  he  could  not  even  bring 
himself  to  writing  a preface  for  them.  

* Octave  Feuillet  died  (while  this  book  was  in  the  press)  on  the  29th  of  December, 
1890,  at  the  age  of  seventy-eight. — [Amer.  Ed. 


Working  pa  rig. 


S3 


Now  the  young  people: 

I lived  once  on  a time,  for  the  space  of  a year,  on  the 
Avenue  de  Villiers,  in  one  of  the  large  houses  arranged  for 
studios,  in  company  of  a dozen  young  artists,  some  of  whom 
had  already  made  a name  and  others  who  were  about  to  make  one. 


EMILE  AUGIER. 


At  sunrise  the  whole  house  was  up;  during  the  summer  months 
the  fencing-master  came  at  six  in  the  morning,  and  they  worked 
for  an  hour  with  him  to  start  a good  circulation  of  the  blood  and 
get  the  necessary  amount  of  exercise.  The  rest  of  the  day  they 


54 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


sat  at  the  easel  until  the  daylight  gave  out,  or  until  dinner-time 
between  -seven  and  eight  in  the  evening.  The  concierge  made 
their  lunch  and  brought  it  up;  the  models  lunched  in  his  lodge, 
so  that  the  whole  thing  might  be  done  in  half  an  hour  and  the 
work  taken  up  again.  They  had  one  day  appointed  each  week 
to  receive  calls,  but  at  other  times  no  visitor  was  admitted,  if  spe- 
cial order  had  not  been  given  to  let  him  in.  The  concierge  was 
an  old  soldier  who  for  seven  years  had  been  the  attendant  of 
General  Changarnier,  and  he  would  rather  have  taken  the  in- 
truders by  the  neck  and  thrown  them  downstairs  than  allow 
“ his  gentlemen  ” to  be  disturbed.  At  dinner-time  they  generally 
went  out  to  take  dinner  together  in  some  cafe  on  the  left  bank, 
to  take  a walk  and  to  meet  their  former  colleagues  over  there  in 
the  old  industrious  quarter,  that  they  always  regretted  having 
left.  There — they  reasoned  in  spite  of  their  hard  work — there 
had  always  been  more  strength  in  the  work  than  in  the  fashion- 
able quarter  where  they  now  lived,  and  where  there  was  an 
atmosphere  of  gold  and  rastaquoueres.  In  this  they  exaggerated 
slightly;  gold  came  truly  to  most  of  them,  especially  to  those 
that  were  rising  men,  but  they  were  not  much  troubled  by  les 
rastaquoueres ; they  received  indeed  invitations  all  the  time,  but 
always  invented  pretexts  enough  to  excuse  themselves.  The 
whole  house  had  a holy  horror  of  soirees,  and  it  was  seldom  that 
the  concierge  could  not  go  to  bed  before  midnight  fully  convinced 
that  all  “his  gentlemen”  were  asleep.  But  not  only  authors 
and  artists  work  in  this  way;  on  the  left  bank  the  same  industry 
is  to  be  found  in  almost  every  house. 

The  Latin  Quarter  has  disappeared  ; those  who  describe  Paris, 
ian  life  weep  over  it  as  the  poets  weep  over  the  old-fashioned 
stages,  abolished  by  the  railroads.  Both  parties  may  well  com- 
plain. With  the  Boheme  life,  the  Boheme  idleness  has  disap- 
peared, and  the  Parisian  student  of  to-day  is  a less  romantic 
person  than  he  was  in  Murger’s  time,  but  he  is,  on  the  other 
hand,  a man  who  can  work.  Take  the  student  of  medicine  for 
instance : he  must  be  at  the  hospital  before  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing; the  rush  for  seats  is  so  great  that  he  would  find  the  doors 
closed  later.  He  stays  there  until  after  eleven,  then  he  has  to 
hurry  home  and  swallow  his  lunch  in  order  to  be  in  the  auditory 
at  twelve.  Most  frequently  the  lectures  last  till  five  or  six. 


WORKING  PARIS. 


55 


After  dinner  he  may  find  time  for  a little  chat  with  his  col- 
leagues at  the  cctft,  but  at  half-past  eight  he  is  called  to  work 
again  by  les  conferences,  the  examinations  of  the  hospital  interns 
and  the  prosectors.  If  he  wants  to  study  by  himself,  he  must 
do  at  nights.  There  are  on  the  left  bank  five  thousand  students 
of  medicine  who  spend  their  day  in  this  way,  and  in  other 
branches  there  are  three  times  as  many  young  men  on  whom 
work  and  industry  have  the  same  claims.  There  are,  finally,  the 
numerous  staff  of  professors  and  teachers  to  whom  the  Paris  out- 
side of  the  study  and  lecture-room  is  an  unknown  world.  It  is 
this  quiet,  industrious  part  of  Parisian  life  that  we  must  never 
forget.  It  is  this  the  poet  had  in  mind  when  he  baptized  this 
city  the  head  and  heart  of  humanity.  In  the  coat  of  arms  of 
this  ship,  swayed  to  and  fro  in  a continual  tempest  without  ever 
perishing,  the  device  of  immortality  is  written.  It  has  a right  to 
stand  there  as  long  as  Paris  is  not  only  the  large,  noisy  “ Cara- 
vansary” of  the  world  but  also  the  indefatigable  working-home 
of  art  and  intellect. 


VI. 

Pasteur  in  his  Laboratory. 


NEAREST  I'ile  de  la  Citt,  the  island  in  the  Seine  where  the 
cradle  of  Paris  stood,  lies  on  the  left  bank,  forming  a little 
square  bordered  on  one  side  by  1' Imtitut,  the  house  of  the  Immor- 
tals, and  on  the  other  side  by  the  Pantheon,  the  building  conse- 
crated to  tontes  les  gloires  de  la  France,  the  Paris  where  the  city’s 
spring  of  eternal  youth  has  its  quiet  and  hidden  source.  On 
ground  that  may  not  be  a hundredth  part  of  this  immense  city 
stand  the  College  de  France  and  Sorbonne,  the  library  of  Sainte 
Genevieve,  l’Ecole  de  M6decine,  l’Ecole  de  Droit,  l’Ecole  Poly- 
technique, l’Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts,  the  normal  school  and  Sainte 
Barbe  ; the  lycdes,  Saint  Louis,  Louis  le  Grand,  and  Henri  IV., 
and  among  these  are  several  high  schools  for  science  and  art,  an 
endless  number  of  laboratories,  cliniques,  collections,  and  mu- 
seums. Almost  every  quarter  of  Paris  has  its  own  peculiar  stamp, 
but  none  has  one  as  characteristic  and  different  from  all  others  as 
this  one.  The  stranger  arriving  there  without  knowing  the  place 
would  think  himself  transported  to  another  city  and  another 
time.  The  modern  style  has  disappeared  and  with  it  the  noise. 
There  are  no  splendid  edifices,  no  shops,  no  asphalt,  and  no  boule- 
vard trees.  The  grass  grows  high  in  the  gardens  and  the  ivy 
climbs  up  the  decayed  walls.  One  feels  like  walking  quietly,  not 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  these  old  houses.  It  is  as  if  they  breathed 
out  an  atmosphere  filled  with  deferential,  solemn  earnestness. 
And  this  impression  is  not  deceiving.  Each  of  these  houses  is  a 
temple  of  human  progress.  The  glory  of  Paris  finds  a focus  in 
each  of  them.  But  there  is  one  in  which  the  rays  are  concen- 
trated with  an  intensified  force  even  for  these  surroundings.  It 
is  this  one  we  will  visit.  It  stands  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Quar- 
ter, hidden  behind  the  walls  of  the  normal  school  in  the  Rue 
d’Ulm,  the  most  quiet  of  quiet  streets  over  here.  The  building 

56 


PASTEUR  IN  HIS  LABORATORY. 


57 


is  very  small,  only  one  story,  with  five  or  six  windows  ; it  looks 
like  a gardener’s  lodge  at  the  entrance  to  an  old  chateau,  and  it 
is  in  this  very  place  that  the  work  is  being  done  which  is  perhaps 
the  greatest  witnessed  in  our  time,  at  least  that  which  has  ripened 
the  best  fruits.  It  is  here  that  Pasteur  has  his  laboratory.  The 


PASTEUR  (AFTER  A DRAWING  OF  ALB.  EDELFELT). 


whole  series  of  his  discoveries  is  attached  to  this  place.  He  has 
worked  there  for  a long  time,  and  his  laboratory  has  been  even 
plainer  looking  than  it  is  now.  In  1857,  when,  at  the  age  of 
thirty,  he  attained  what  for  a young  man  is  so  exceptional  a dis- 
tinction,— a professorship  at  the  normal  school, — it  was  less  the 


58 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


position  itself  that  made  the  removal  from  the  province  to  Paris 
so  full  of  promise  to  him,  but  more  the  prospect  of  having  his 
own  laboratory.  This  had  been  his  dream  from  his  earliest 
years.  When  he  was  still  studying  chemistry  under  Dumas  at 
the  normal  school  he  had  received  permission  to  spend  his  Sun- 
days experimenting  with  Dumas’s  assistant,  Barruel.  When  he 
went  to  bed  on  Saturday  evenings,  he  counted  the  hours  left 
before  he  could  hasten  to  the  laboratory.  They  were  seldom 
many.  There  is  still  kept  a retort,  with  sixty  grams  phosphorus, 
that  he  had  extracted  from  bones  on  an  experimenting  day  which 
lasted  from  four  in  the  morning  till  nine  at  night. 

When  in  the  laboratory,  he  forgot  sleep,  hunger,  and  even 
more  than  that.  After  having  concluded  his  studies,  and  received 
a position  as  teacher  of  chemistry  at  the  Academy  of  Stras- 
burg,  he  became  engaged  to  the  rector’s  daughter, — his  present 
wife  ; but  as  much  as  he  loved  her,  on  his  wedding  day  they  still 
were  obliged  to  seek  him  in  the  laboratory  to  remind  him  that 
this  was  the  day  he  was  to  be  married.  He  was  already  then  on 
the  track  in  which  he  later  made  so  much  progress.  He  had 
commenced  to  study  the  process  of  fermentation,  and  had  asked 
himself  where  the  reason  lay  for  the  change  that  death  creates 
in  all  organic  matter,  when  no  human  hand  intrenches  upon  it, 
where  the  explanation  was  to  be  found  of  the  disappearance  of 
the  corpse  or  faded  plant,  of  the  fact  that  the  dough  left  alone 
raises  and  ferments  itself,  that  the  milk  curdles  and  the  blood 
coagulates.  And  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  at  every 
fermentation  process,  in  the  case  of  corruption  as  well  as  in  all 
other  cases,  it  was  microscopic  plants  or  organic  microbes  that 
were  at  work.  But  where  had  these  infinitesimally  small  things 
come  from  ? had  they  formed  themselves?  or  were  they  indebted 
for  their  life  to  other  germs?  and  from  whence  then  did  these 
germs  come  ? This  was  the  great,  never-ceasing  question  of  a 
spontaneous  appearance  of  organic  matter,  which  he  had  taken 
up.  Just  when  his  suspicion  of  an  entirely  new  solution  of  this 
problem,  that  would  destroy  all  former  theories,  began  to  dawn, 
he  was  called  from  the  scientific  faculty  of  Lille,  where  he  had 
worked  for  some  time,  to  the  capital.  He  was  as  delighted  as  a 
child  ; all  the  hindrances,  that  had  prevented  him  from  finishing 
the  work  he  was  engaged  upon,  in  this  provincial  town,  disap- 


PASTEUR  IN  HIS  LABORATORY. 


S9 


peared  at  his  removal  to  Paris.  He  had  there  at  his  disposal 
everything  he  needed  ; and  when  they  gave  him,  with  his  profes- 
sorship, an  independent  laboratory,  he  was  sure  that  his  investi- 
gations would  end  in  the  result  he  hoped  to  attain.  The  minis- 
ter’s answer  to  his  petition  was,  however,  not  what  he  had 
expected  it  to  be.  There  was,  said  the  letter,  no  article  in  the 
budget  that  allowed  them  to  assign  him  the  fifteen  hundred 
francs  a year  which  he  had  requested  for  experimenting  expenses. 
While  he  stood  with  this  document  in  his  hand,  very  despondent, 
Dumas  and  Biot,  his  former  teachers,  now  his  colleagues,  came  to 
see  him.  They  procured  privately  the  modest  sum  he  needed, 
the  little  building  beside  the  Normal  school  was  hired,  and  the 
laboratory  established  there  in  spite  of  the  minister.  Since  then 
over  a quarter  of  a century  has  passed  ; Science  has  a larger 
place  in  the  French  budget  and  Pasteur’s  position  is  also  differ- 
ent. The  state  gives  him  now  a yearly  income  by  which  he  and 
his  work  are  freed  from  every  material  need.  The  Paris  munici- 
pal council  grants  him  as  much  room  as  he  needs  for  his  experi- 
ments ; it  has  put  at  his  disposal  the  whole  garden  of  the  old 
Rollin  college,  and  has  there  built  luxurious  quarters  for  all  the 
animals  on  which  he  experiments.  The  laboratory  building  is  his 
property  and  has  been  richly  provided  with  all  that  might  facili- 
tate and  promote  his  work,  but  the  house  is  still  the  same  into 
which  he  moved  so  long  a time  ago.  He  has  not  been  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  leaive  it.  It  has  become  precious  to  him  ; 
his  whole  life  is  within  these  walls.  And  what  a work  this  life 
encircles,  what  victories  have  been  won  in  this  old  house ! the 
most  wonderful  of  all  the  wonderful  tales  of  science  that  our 
century  is  so  rich  in  has  taken  place  there. 

As  soon  as  Pasteur  had  his  laboratory  he  took  up  the  problem 
that  was  solved  there.  When  Dumas  and  Biot  heard  that  he  was 
trying  to  find  the  origin  of  microscopic  matter,  they  shook  their 
heads  in  doubt  ; they  thought  it  as  useless  as  it  was  daring  to 
venture  upon  this,  and  all  his  other  colleagues  shared  their 
opinion.  But  Pasteur  remembered  that  the  same  had  been  said 
to  Columbus  when  he  set  sail  ; but  he  had  nevertheless  found 
America.  He  was  not  discouraged  and  he  too  discovered  a world. 
The  idea  about  the  spontaneous  genesis  had  been  firmly  believed 
in  since  Aristotle’s  assertion  that  every  dry  body  made  moist 


6o 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


would  beget  animals,  and  since  Virgil’s  hypothesis  that  the  bees 
had  come  into  existence  by  the  decayed  entrails  of  a bull.  Even 
at  the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  there  had  not  been  much  progress 
made  in  this  line.  The  alchemistic  physician,  Van  Helmont, 
gave  in  all  earnestness  his  famous  receipt  for  getting  a nest  full  of 
mice.  It  was  only  necessary  to  close  the  opening  of  a vessel  filled 
with  wheat  with  a piece  of  soiled  linen;  the  ferment  of  the  linen, 
added  to  the  exhalations  from  the  corn,  would,  after  a lapse  of 
twenty-one  days,  cause  the  transformation  of  the  wheat  into  mice. 
The  Italian  Redi  was  the  first  to  investigate  the  question  more 
carefully.  He  proved  that  the  worms  in  decayed  meat  do  not 
arise  from  nothing,  but  are  the  larvae  of  fly-eggs ; if  a piece  of 
gauze  is  put  around  the  wheat  before  exposing  it  to  the  air,  so 
that  the  flies  cannot  settle  on  it,  there  are  consequently  no  eggs 
put  in  it,  and  no  worms  will  arise.  But  just  at  the  time  when 
the  investigations  had  proceeded  this  far,  the  microscope  was 
discovered,  and  with  it  the  thousands  of  organic  beings  that  had 
not  been  known  before.  In  the  face  of  this  swarm  the  party 
of  spontaneous  genesis  triumphed.  They  admitted  that  they 
might  have  been  wrong  about  the  mice  and  worms,  but  the 
existence  of  these  microscopical  beings  could  only  be  explained 
by  their  theory.  The  great  quantity  in  which  they  were  found  in 
every  dead  or  decayed  vegetable,  or  animal  body,  would  be 
impossible  if  they  did  not  have  a spontaneous  origin.  A short 
time  after  Pasteur  had  arranged  his  laboratory,  and  commenced 
his  studies  with  burning  eagerness,  the  problem  was  more  dis- 
cussed than  ever.  Pouchet  had  asserted  before  the  Academy  of 
Science  that  he  had  traced  with  success  the  microscopical  being 
that  came  into  existence  without  any  germs.  His  opponents — 
he  said — maintained  that  these  germs  were  to  be  found  in  the 
air  and  that  they  were  thereby  carried  everywhere.  But  this 
hypothesis  would  drop  when  he  could  prove  the  existence  of 
these  beings  in  the  artificial  air  by  which  he  had  replaced  the 
atmosphere.  He  did  this  by  filling  a little  bottle  with  boiling 
water,  closed  hermetically,  and  put  it,  the  cork  downward,  in  a 
vessel  containing  quicksilver.  When  the  water  had  cooled  off  he 
removed  the  cork  under  the  quicksilver,  and  introduced  pure 
oxygen,  with  a few  seeds  of  hay,  taken  out  of  a stove  that  had 
for  a long  while  been  heated  to  over  a hundred  degrees  centi- 


6l 


6a 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


grade.  Eight  days  afterwards  this  hay  was  covered  with  mold. 
“ Where  did  this  come  from  ? ” asked  Pouchet  triumphantly  ; it 
could  not  come  from  the  oxygen,  which  was  chemically  pure  ; 
neither  from  the  water,  as  every  organic  germ  dies  under  the 
boiling  process  ; neither  from  the  hay,  as  the  germs  would  not  in 
this  case  have  been  able  to  withstand  the  temperature  reached 
by  the  heating.  He  was  sure  of  his  case  and  boldly  challenged 
anybody  to  prove  the  contrary. 

This  was  in  1864.  Pasteur  had  made  experiment  upon 
experiment,  and  had  at  last  succeeded  so  well  that  he  could 
appear  in  public  and  take  up  the  gauntlet.  “ I shall  allow  my- 
self  to  show  you  how  the  mice  appeared,”  he  said,  in  one  of  a 
series  of  lectures  that  were  given  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  created  a 
great  sensation.  He  admitted  that  Pouchet’s  experiment  was 
very  clever,  but  it  was  after  all  a repetition  of  Helmont’s  vessel 
and  linen.  He  had  certainly  removed  the  organic  germs  from 
the  water  and  hay,  but  he  had  not  removed  the  dust  from  the 
quicksilver,  and  it  was  this  very  dust  that  caused  the  error  and 
overthrew  the  whole  system.  To  make  these  dust  atoms  come 
into  view  Pasteur  first  produced  complete  darkness  in  the  room 
and  then  sent  a ray  of  light  through  this  darkness.  Thousands 
of  little  dust  atoms  were  then  seen  dancing  and  whirling  in  this 
ray.  He  explained  how  this  dust  fell  down  and  settled  upon 
the  quicksilver,  as  well  as  upon  all  other  objects;  since  this  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  mine  thousands  and  thousands  of  dust  atoms 
had  fallen  upon  it,  and  it  was  not  possible  to  touch  it  without 
bringing  them  from  the  surface  into  the  mass  of  the  silver.  He 
took  a little  glass  bar,  put  it  into  the  silver,  let  the  light  fall  upon 
it,  and  showed  how  all  the  atoms  came  that  way  and  settled 
between  the  glass  and  the  quicksilver.  He  proved  the  sponta- 
neous genesis  to  be  a chimera.  The  quickest  decaying  fluids, 
such  as  milk,  etc.,  might  be  kept  for  months  and  years  if  micro- 
scopic germs  could  be  prevented  from  entering  into  the  vessels 
in  which  they  were  preserved.  This  was  the  first  great  triumph 
of  Pasteur’s  laboratory,  but  it  was  by  no  means  the  end  he  had 
tried  to  reach.  With  the  intuition  of  genius  he  had  found  a 
way  that  began  at  this  point,  and  with  the  indefatigableness  of 
genius  he  followed  it  up  step  by  step.  When  he  had  come  to  a 
clear  understanding  of  the  life  principle  in  this  world  of  minute 


PASTEUR  IN  HIS  LA  BOR  A TORY. 


63 


particles  he  returned  to  his  fermentation  process,  of  which  these 
particles  formed  the  soul.  He  proved  how  wine  diseases  were  to 
be  traced  to  them,  and  he  found  at  the  same  time  the  means  to 
cure  these  diseases. 

When  Dumas  requested  him  to  study  the  plague  that  since 
1849  had  plunged  the  south  of  France  into  despair  by  its  destruc- 
tion of  the  silk-worm  crop,  he  went,  without  ever  having  had  a 
silk-worm  in  his  hand  before,  to  Allais,  one  of  the  centers  of  this 
industry,  and  after  five  years  of  patient  and  persevering  investi- 
gations he  triumphed  over  this  disease,  which  in  one  year  had 
cost  France  a loss  of  more  than  a hundred  million  francs.  The 
result  was  indeed  reached  by  superhuman  efforts  ; he  had  forced 
the  use  of  the  microscope  to  a high  degree,  and  had  in  so  many 
ways  exposed  his  health  that  he,  immediately  after  his  return  to 
the  laboratory  in  the  Rue  d’Ulm,  had  a paralytic  stroke.  For  a 
week  he  was  at  death’s  door,  but  a spirit  that  has  a mission  like 
his,  does  not  succumb  to  the  body  before  its  work  is  finished;  he 
was  restored  to  health  again,  but  the  lameness  did  not  leave  him 
entirely,  and,  although  eighteen  years  have  passed  since  then,  his 
walk  is  like  that  of  a wounded  man.  But  he  smiles  at  it, — he  can 
work,  and  that  is  all  he  asks  for;  and  what  fruits  has  his  work 
not  borne  during  these  eighteen  years  ! They  include  the  last 
period  of  the  history  of  his  laboratory,  that  in  which  he  has  dis- 
covered the  whole  atom  world,  brought  it  to  submission  and 
changed  it  into  vaccines  against  contagious  diseases.  He  com- 
menced by  examining  the  carbuncle,  and,  after  having  proved 
the  existence  of  the  microbe  in  the  diseased  blood,  he  isolated  it 
and  cultivated  it  in  a fluid  suitable  for  the  purpose.  He  showed 
how  this  microbe,  in  the  course  of  a few  hours,  produced  myriads 
of  bacteria.  A small  drop  of  this  first  crop,  put  into  another  ves- 
sel, shows  the  same  fruitfulness.  There  can  be  made  ten  or 
twenty  crops  in  this  way,  and  when  a little  of  the  last  is  injected 
under  the  skin  of  a rabbit  or  sheep,  the  animal  dies  a few  days 
after  with  all  the  symptoms  of  the  disease.  This  was  conse- 
quently a poisonous  disease  brought  about  by  a microbe ; a 
great  scientific  step  had  been  taken,  but  this  was  not  enough  for 
Pasteur.  He  went  on  to  show  how  the  bacteria  when  cultivated 
under  certain  circumstances  loses  a part,  great  or  small,  accord- 
ing to  the  wishes  of  the  operator,  of  its  fearful  qualities.  The 


64 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


same  inoculation  that  used  to  kill  a sheep  is  now  hardly  enough 
to  kill  a guinea-pig,  and  the  great  success  attained  is  that  this 
sheep,  under  whose  skin  the  weakened  bacteria  has  been  injected, 
might  now,  without  harm,  be  inoculated  with  the  poisonous  blood 
that  formerly  would  have  killed  it.  It  is  vaccinated.  He  has 
discovered  microbe  upon  microbe  and  vaccine  upon  vaccine,  but 
he  does  not  as  yet  feel  as  if  he  had  reached  the  end. 

When  visiting  the  laboratory  in  the  Rue  d’Ulm  you  first 
enter  a corridor,  where  you  are  generally  asked  to  wait  a moment 
until  Pasteur  has  been  informed  of  the  call  and  has  time  to  end 
the  experiment  on  which  he  is  engaged.  This  is  just  the  place 
to  give  you  a good  comprehension  of  how  far-reaching  his 
studies  are,  and  how  many  announcements  of  scientific  victories 
may  yet  come  from  this  place.  Near  one  wall  stands  a table 
with  piles  of  little  bottles  that  are  carefully  packed  away  in  boxes. 
They  are  the  triumphs  already  won  that  stand  on  parade ; the 
bottles  contain  vaccines  that  are  sent  to  veterinary  surgeons  all 
over  the  world,  and  which,  yearly,  protect  millions  and  millions 
of  the  most  important  domestic  animals  against  disease  to  which 
they  formerly  succumbed.  On  the  shelves  on  the  other  wall, 
where  Pasteur  keeps  the  arranged  and  classified  resumes  of  all  his 
experiments,  stand  promises  of  the  future  that  rivet  the  attention 
and  are  the  most  imposing  feature  of  the  place.  Here  you  not 
only  find  the  names  of  all  the  epidemics  that  visit  the  animal 
kingdom,  but  side  by  side  with  them  the  human  diseases  are 
marked  with  a little  green  card.  There  is  hardly  a contagious 
disease  not  represented  on  the  labels,  and  it  is  under  the  over- 
whelming impression  of  the  work  they  tell  of  that  you  enter  the 
laboratory.  This  is  large  and  light,  but  primitively  simple,  with- 
out the  least  outward  sign  of  being  the  work-place  of  a king  of 
science.  The  furniture  consists  of  some  rush-seat  chairs  and  the 
long,  unpainted  deal  tables  on  which  retorts,  graduating  glasses, 
spirit-lamps,  and  microscopes  stand  in  apparent  disorder  among 
open  books  and  yellow  “ copy-paper”  filled  with  notes. 

Pasteur  is  here  assisted  by  his  two  most  important  co-oper- 
ators, one  of  his  nephews  and  a younger  scientific  man,  Dr. 
Roux,  who  followed  the  Cholera  expedition  to  Africa  and  has 
already  made  himself  known  by  several  important  independent 
discoveries.  In  company  with  them  he  spends  the  day  at  the 


PASTEUR  IN  HIS  LABORATORY. 


55 

great  work-table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  upon  which  the  light 
falls  from  both  windows.  When  he  is  called  to  board  meetings 
or  to  the  Academy,  he  puts  aside  his  velvet  skull-cap,  and  his 
nephew  helps  him  to  put  on  his  black  coat  with  the  grand  cross 
of  the  Legion  of  Honor;  but  at  all  other  times  he  stands,  in 
spite  of  his  sixty-odd  years,  from  morning  till  night,  in  his  blouse, 
bent  over  the  glasses  with  the  microbe  poison,  experimenting 
eagerly  and  passionately,  without  considering  what  he  exposes 
himself  to,  any  more  than  when  he  was  stricken  with  lameness  in 
Allais. 

He  certainly  does  not  give  you  the  impression  of  an  old  man 
when  you  see  him  standing  here.  There  is  something  about 
this  vigorous,  thick-set  figure  of  hardly  average  height,  with  the 
large  gray  head  and  the  strong  neck  set  on  broad  shoulders,  that 
seems  able  to  defy  any  strain.  The  eye  is  gentle,  with  a serious 
expression,  as  if  half-veiled  by  the  thoughts  crowding  into  his 
head  ; but  suddenly  there  will  come  a gleam  of  light  in  them,  and 
at  the  same  time  an  almost  fierce,  masterful,  commanding  ex- 
pression passes  over  the  mouth  betraying  the  searcher  accus- 
tomed to  bring  worlds  to  subjection.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  it  is 
not  only  indefatigable  study  that  has  brought  him  his  success, 
but  also  an  unconquerable  will  and  a courage  that  recognizes  no 
danger.  He  has  shown  this  courage  on  many  occasions.  His 
son-in-law,  Valley-Radot,  whose  book,  Histoire  d'un  Savant , tells 
the  history  of  Pasteur’s  discoveries,  relates  one  instance  : 

A vttdrinaire,  who  had  two  mad  dogs,  sent  for  Pasteur ; one 
of  them,  an  enormous  bull-dog,  was  howling  and  foaming  in  the 
last  stages  of  the  disease.  They  put  into  the  cage  an  iron  bar, 
which  he  threw  himself  over,  and  that  could  hardly  be  wrenched 
out  of  his  mouth.  Then  one  of  the  rabbits  brought  by  Pasteur 
was  taken  to  the  cage,  and  its  ear  put  in  between  the  bars,  but, 
in  spite  of  all  they  did  to  irritate  the  dog,  he  threw  himself  back 
in  the  cage  and  would  not  bite.  Pasteur,  however,  would,  at  any 
cost,  have  the  foam  inoculated  into  one  of  his  rabbits.  Two  men 
then  put  a rope  around  the  dog’s  neck  ; he  was  pulled  up  to  the 
side  of  the  cage,  bound  and  kept  immovable,  while  Pasteur,  at 
hardly  one-half  inch’s  distance,  bent  down  over  him  and  with  a 
glass  tube  took  some  of  the  foam  to  experiment  with.  Valley- 
Radot  says  that  in  this  vtttrinaire  s cellar,  at  the  sight  of  this 


66 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


terrible  tite-h-tite , Pasteur  seemed  to  him  greater  than  ever. 
This  is  one  single  instance  that  has  been  recorded,  but  how 
many  times  may  Pasteur  have  been  similarly  situated  with  the 
hundreds  of  mad  dogs  he  has  had  in  his  laboratory!  And  what 
does  he  not  expose  himself  to  day  by  day?  In  the  little  dark 
closet,  beside  the  work-room,  there  is  heaped  up  virus  enough  to 
kill  the  whole  of  Paris.  This  is  his  holiest  of  holies.  Here  he 
cultivates  his  microbes  ; in  little  bottles,  tapering  to  a point  as  fine 
as  a needle,  in  yellow,  golden,  and  light  brown  fluids,  are  kept  all 
sorts  and  grades  of  them  in  the  permanent  boiling  heat  neces- 
sary for  their  thriving.  Carefully  as  if  he  caressed  them  Pasteur 
shows  bottle  after  bottle  to  his  visitors,  and  explains  from  which 
animal  the  bacteria  has  been  taken  and  for  which  it  is  destined. 
He  does  not  need  to  look  at  the  labels,  he  knows  their  history 
by  heart.  It  is  seldom  that  he  does  not  take  a personal  part  in 
every  particular  experiment.  Even  these  are  not  without  dan- 
ger, however  carefully  they  are  carried  on.  In  the  operating 
rooms  beside  the  laboratory,  the  animal  that  is  to  be  experi- 
mented upon  is,  after  having  been  chloroformed,  stretched  out 
on  a wooden  pallet,  standing  so  that  it  is  free  on  all  sides  like  an 
operating  table. 

The  microbe  poison  is,  especially  in  a case  of  hydrophobia, 
injected  under  the  cranium,  where  it  takes  effect  more  directly 
and  rapidly  than  elsewhere.  With  a quick  cut,  the  skin  of  the 
forehead  is  turned  up,  the  operator  bores  a little  round  hole  with 
a gimlet  and  takes  out  the  little  bone  splinter,  then  a drop  of  one 
of  the  yellow  fluids  is  injected  with  a diminutive  “ squirt  ” and 
the  inoculation  is  done.  The  bone  splinter  is  replaced,  the  skin 
sewed  together,  and  the  animal  put  aside  to  give  room  for  another 
on  the  table.  When  it  awakens  it  is  as  well  and  lively  as  before 
it  was  chloroformed,  and  experiences  temporarily  no  inconven- 
ience from  the  operation.  All  the  cries  raised  by  soft-hearted 
animal  protectors  against  the  laboratory  in  the  Rue  d'Ulm,  are 
caused  by  narrow-mindedness  and  by  ignorance  of  what  is  really 
being  done  there.  The  disease  being  in  the  animal’s  blood,  Pas- 
teur can  predict  the  hour,  minute,  and  nature  of  the  symptoms 
that  will  show  themselves. 

The  cellar  under  the  house,  and  a labyrinth  of  little  inclosed 
yards  around  it,  are  filled  with  hundreds  of  microbe-ingrafted 


PASTEUR  IN  HIS  LABORATORY. 


<>7 


animals  of  all  kinds.  Rabbits  and  guinea-pigs  are  there  in  great- 
est numbers  ; but,  from  the  little  white  mice  up  to  the  monkey, 
almost  the  whole  animal  kingdom  is  represented  in  Pasteur’s 
menagerie.  Horses,  sheep,  and  pigs,  have  their  own  stables  built 
in  zinc,  and  with  a series  of  gas-pipes  along  the  walls,  so  that 
fire  can  be  put  to  the  whole  structure,  and  the  microbes  be  burnt 
up  as  soon  as  the  experiments  are  finished.  With  the  dogs  Pas- 
teur had  the  greatest  difficulty.  At  all  places  where  he  used  to 
board  them  the  neighbors  raised  a scream  of  terror  at  the  danger- 
ous proximity,  and  over  the  disturbance  of  their  sleep,  caused  by 
the  howls  of  the  mad  animals.  Now  he  has,  at  last,  had  a yard 
arranged  for  them  near  the  laboratory,  behind  a vacant  school, 
where  nobody  lives  near  enough  to  hear  the  noise,  and  which  is 
so  fenced  in  with  railings  and  gates  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  the  prisoners  to  escape.  Every  animal  upon  which  experi- 
ments are  held,  has  its  separate  cage,  on  which  a card-board  label 
states  when  and  with  which  microbe  matter,  and  how  many  times 
it  has  been  inoculated,  the  symptoms  of  the  disease  exhibited, 
and,  in  short,  its  biography  since  it  entered  the  service  of  science. 

Every  morning  Pasteur  goes  the  rounds  of  his  menagerie,  and 
looks  at  his  “ witnesses,”  as  he  calls  them.  Manyjaf  the  dogs 
and  monkeys  know  him  and  come  to  the  side  of  the  cage  to  be 
caressed  by  him.  It  is  as  if  they  knew  that  he  only  seeks  the 
welfare  of  their  race,  as  if  they  understood  that  when  he  risks 
their  life  for  the  sake  of  science,  he  risks  his  own  at  the  same  time. 
Pasteur  seemed  greatest  to  Valley-Radot,  when  face  to  face  with 
the  mad  dog,  inhaling  the  froth  from  its  mouth.  To  me  he 
seems  even  greater,  where  his  courage  may  not  be  so  apparent, 
at  his  daily  occupation  with  the  microbe  poison  in  his  laboratory, 
under  the  walks  in  these  cellars  and  yards,  where  danger  lurks  at 
every  step  and  where  he  passes  it  smilingly,  without  even  think- 
ing of  it.  His  life  here,  during  a quarter  of  a century,  in  the  old 
quiet  house  behind  the  walls  of  the  Normal  School,  has  added  a 
page  to  the  history  of  modern  Paris,  on  which  it  is  more  than 
ever  written  in  letters  of  golden  flame  that  this  city  is  the  head 
and  heart  of  humanity. 


69 


*;  v 


VII. 

Cftfi£  and  Street  Life. 


i. 

THE  Paris  boulevard  is  a street 
of  a very  peculiar  nature.  It 
is  not  only  the  business,  the 
crowds,  or  the  mottled  coloring  of 
the  metropolis  that  makes  it  what 
it  is.  London  has  as  much  life 
of  this  kind  and  perhaps  more, 
but  what  a difference  between 
these  two  cities ! In  London  the 
street  is  merely  a link  of  commu- 
nication between  two  points,  the 
one  you  leave  and  the  one  you 
are  bound  for ; to  reach  this  last 
in  the  shortest  and  easiest  way  is 
your  first  and  only  thought  as 
soon  as  you  step  outside  the 
door.  To  linger  in  the  street  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  being  there 
is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Every- 
where there  are  busy  people  hurrying  on  with  long  steps  and 
elbowing  their  way  through  the  crowd.  The  carriages  rattle 
along,  the  drivers  whip  the  horses,  and  the  thousand  voices  of 
this  noise  unite  in  one  single  cry — Forward!  forward!  You 
see  nothing,  perceive  nothing,  but  feel  only  the  throng  behind 
you.  You  feel  as  though  it  would  fall  over  you,  bury  you,  and 
close  over  you  if  you  stopped.  You  join  the  restless  hurry,  walk 
and  walk,  and  do  not  get  rid  of  the  fever  or  breathe  freely  again 
until  you  have  reached  your  destination. 

In  Paris,  however,  it  is  altogether  different.  Even  where  the 
traffic  and  hurry  are  greatest,  there  is  nothing  breathless  about 

71 


72 


PARIS  OP  TO-DAY. 


it ; people  are,  of  course,  busy  here  and  there,  but  one  hardly 
notices  them  among  the  many  who  are  not ; among  those  who  sit 


ON  THE  BOULEVARD. 


outside  the  cafds,  stand  in  the  doorways  or  in  groups  on  the  side- 
walk, or  saunter  slowly  along.  You  feel  as  if  you  were  on  pleasure 


CAP  A AND  STREET  LIFE . 


73 


bent,  stopping  to  look  where  there  is  anything  to  look  at,  opening 
your  eyes  wide  and  filling  your  mind  with  impressions.  You  have, 
perhaps,  gone  out  for  an  hour  or  so  to  do  something,  but  before 
you  know  it  the  day  has  passed,  and  when  you  return  you  dis- 
cover that  the  object  of  the  walk  has  been  forgotten.  The  street 
life  has  been  so  entertaining  and  amusing  that  you  could  not  tear 
yourself  away,  so  you  have  let  it  take  entire  possession  of  the 
mind.  You  have  not  for  a moment  felt  yourself  on  a highway 
where  it  was  necessary  to  walk  on.  It  has  been  like  a garden 
where  you  felt  at  home  and  consequently  stayed.  This  is  what 
the  Paris  street  really  is.  Home  is  to  the  Parisian  a place  where 
he  works;  rest  and  recreation  after  the  work  is  found  outside  of 
the  home  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil  and  crowd,  where  it  is  at 
its  highest,  and  where  excitement  makes  the  blood  circulate 
quicker  and  act  upon  the  impressible  imagination. 

One  seeks  the  boulevard  : it  is  the  great  rendezvous  where  the 
whole  population  flocks  together  to  satisfy  its  great  craving  for 
sociability ; where  people  meet  with  the  wish  of  being  together, 
and  associate  with  the  amiable  courtesy  and  easy  approach  that 
is  a consequence  of  the  consciousness  of  being  mutually  entertain- 
ing. The  street  life  here  becomes  in  this  way  unusually  varie- 
gated, and  has  this  light,  pleasant  tone,  this  joyous  brightness, 
this  repose  in  motion,  this  harmony  in  colors  wherein  lies  the 
charm  that  makes  the  Parisian  boulevard  so  different  from  all 
other  streets. 

II. 

The  cafes  form  its  main  feature.  They  lie  side  by  side,  in 
countless  number,  along  the  thoroughfare  between  the  Bastille 
and  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  In  the  less  frequented  and  less 
fashionable  quarter,  between  the  Chateau  d’Eau  and  the  Column 
of  Liberty,  the  boulevard  is  not  so  filled  with  them  ; but  from  the 
Rue  Rougemont  to  the  Church  of  the  Madeleine  they  crowd 
each  other  so  that  at  some  places  there  are  only  a few  feet 
between  them.  Their  number  would  be  too  great  if  they  served 
only  as  refreshment  places.  Not  a tenth  of  them  could  subsist, 
even  if  the  Parisians  were  given  to  drink  more  than  any  other 
people  in  the  world.  This  they  are  by  no  means,  and  yet  one 
and  all  of  the  cafe  proprietors  grow  rich  within  a few  years.  The 
reason  is  that  they  offer  their  guests  other  things  besides  drinks. 


74 


“THE  CAF&  IS  A RESERVED 


CAF&  AND  STREET  LIFE. 


75 


The  cafe  is  a reserved  seat  in  the  street,  a sort  of  comfortable 
sofa-corner  in  the  great  common  parlor,  and  it  is  on  this  that  its 
success  rests.  The  furniture  is  plain,  for  a city  like  Paris,  almost 
poor ; little  comfortable  corners,  suitable  for  a party,  are  not 
there  ; every  spot  is  used  ; the  tables  stand  so  near  together  that 
there  is  only  just  room  for  one  person  to  pass.  There  is  not 
much  done  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests,  either.  It  is  only 
in  the  out-of-the-way  streets  that  the  cafts  have  their  billiard- 
rooms  ; and  the  supply  of  papers  is  also  very  deficient.  They  have 
five  or  six  Parisian  papers  in  single  copies,  none  from  the  prov- 
inces or  foreign  countries.  Everything  is  expensive,  an  ordi- 
nary drink  costing  fifty  centimes  without  regard  to  what  it  is,  so 
that  in  all  these  respects  the  Parisian  cafes  cannot  be  compared 
to  those  of  other  large  cities.  They  have  one  great  advantage, 
the  multicolored  picture  of  public  life  in  front  of  them.  They 
are  always  open  in  front  and  the  room  extends  into  the  street, 
the  tables  occupying  half  the  width  of  the  sidewalk — the  largest 
cafes  may  have  up  to  fifty  tables  outside,  and  these  are  really  the 
most  important,  while  the  rooms  inside  are  looked  upon  as  a sort 
of  appendix.  When  it  rains  the  awning  is  put  out  so  that  the 
guests  may  imagine  it  to  be  dry  weather.  Even  the  cold  does 
not  drive  them  away  from  their  seat  on  the  sidewalk,  save  on  a 
few  exceptional  days.  Through  ten  months  the  cafe  is  in  its 
summer  dress  and  the  winter  costume  is  not  very  severe,  even 
during  the  two  remaining  ones.  The  chairs  are  left  on  the  side- 
walks, and  the  windows  left  open  on  mild  days.  The  Parisians 
are  not  susceptible  to  cold,  where  their  beloved  boulevards  are 
in  question.  It  is  only  during  the  early  morning  hours  that  the 
cafe  stands  half  empty,  with  a public  of  querulous  waiters  and 
Baedecker-studying  travelers. 

At  dejeuner  a la  fourchette , the  guests  begin  to  crowd  in.  As 
a rule  there  is  also  a restaurant,  and  the  distance  to  their  homes 
being  too  great,  the  business  men  take  their  lunch  there.  It 
costs  them,  of  course,  between  three  and  four  francs  at  the  least, 
and  they  spend  an  hour  or  two  over  their  meal,  but  neither  time 
nor  money  is  lost.  They  meet  people  with  whom  they  have 
business  connection,  information  is  asked  and  given,  and  some- 
times the  most  important  business  is  done  at  the  table.  Quick, 
active,  and  resolute  as  people  are  here,  sure  of  what  they  want, 


76  v PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

and  accustomed  to  asking  for  it  without  beating  around  the  bush, 
they  do  not  feel  the  need  of  sitting  in  an  office  chair  to  talk  the 
matter  over  and  over  before  it  is  decided  upon.  A question,  an 
answer — voilh,  c est  entendu  ; the  waiter  brings  pen  and  paper 
and  the  contract  is  made  before  the  next  course  is  served.  The 
cafe  is  a business  place  as  well  as  a restaurant,  but  that  does  not 
prevent  it  from  being  unsurpassed  in  this  last  quality. 

Le  chef  de  cuisine,  this  imposing  fellow-citizen,  with  the 
large,  white  apron,  the  short  hanger,  and  the  white  cap,  is  a man 
who  understands  his  business.  He  may  sometimes  feel  indis- 
posed when  he  prepares  the  dinner,  but  it  does  not  matter,  for 
the  guests  are  not  critical ; they  only  come  once  in  a while,  have 
no  independent  opinion,  and  find  everything  excellent  when  the 
place  has  a good  name.  At  the  dfeuner  ct  la  fourchette,  he  is 
obliged  to  have  all  his  wits  about  him  ; he  is  working  for  guests 
who  know  how  to  judge  his  piquant  sauce.  The  cafe  would  be 
matchless  even  if  the  chef  was  its  only  strong  point.  But  apart 
from  him  it  has  the  absinthe  time,  which  is  still  more  unique. 
The  chairs  are  in  constant  use  between  noon  and  midnight,  but 
during  the  absinthe  time  there  is  not  a vacant  seat  to  be  found. 
This  “time  ” is  not  known  outside  Paris. 

When  the  Parisian  has  finished  his  business,  toward  evening, 
he  inserts,  between  his  business  troubles  and  the  troubles  that 
may  possibly  await  him  at  home,  a short  leisure,  during  which 
all  that  existence  may  possess  of  a disagreeable  and  worrying 
quality  is  thrown  away.  He  buys  his  evening  paper  in  the 
kiosk,  goes  to  his  cafe,  takes  his  accustomed  seat,  gives  his 
order,  and  then  for  an  hour  or  so  his  whole  being  is  penetrated 
by  a quiet  sense  of  great  comfort,  dimly  conscious  of  but  one 
feeling — namely,  that  life  is,  after  all,  a wonderful  and  pleasant 
thing.  The  absinthe  bock,  or  the  thimbleful  of  Madeira,  or 
whatever  he  may  be  drinking,  is  only  a false  pretext,  a tribute 
he  pays  for  his  seat,  something  like  the  two  sous  he  gives  the 
woman  in  the  Parc  Monceau  or  Champs-Elysees  for  his  chair. 
And  the  paper ! It  might  tell  him  that  the  earth  would  fall 
down  the  next  day  on  the  sun  and  be  devoured  by  the  flames,  his 
thoughts  would  not  be  able  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  words 
before  the  absinthe  time  was  over.  His  soul  melts  into  one  with 
the  life  of  his  great  beloved  city,  and  this  is  for  him  perfect  com- 


CAP  A AND  STREET  LIFE.  77 

fort,  and  he  has  the  quiet  peace,  the  infinite  satisfaction,  that  a 
man  experiences  when  he  lives  the  life  he  loves. 

Dinner  comes.  The  carriages,  which  the  cafe  guests  have 
been  watching  from  five  to  seven,  while  they  carried  the  tlite  to 
and  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  are  more  scarce,  the  crowds 
waiting  at  the  omnibus  stations  become  smaller,  the  carriages 
roll  from  the  boulevard  into  the  side  streets  ; there  are  a few 
pedestrians  left,  but  their  step  is  quicker  ; the  ladies  no  more  come 
out  in  crowds  from  the  shops,  the  many-colored  luxury  of  their 
costumes  has  been  replaced  by  the  little  working-woman’s  black 
merino  dress;  the  newsmen’s  cries  slowly  die  away.  Paris  has, 
during  the  absinthe  time,  displayed  herself  to  the  public  in  all 
her  glory,  but  the  play  is  over,  the  street  life  takes  its  dinner. 

When  the  absinthe  no  longer  serves  as  a pretext  for  enjoying 
street  life,  the  Mazagran  and  bock  step  in,  and  in  the  evening 
the  boulevard  is  once  more  the  great  place  of  entertainment, 
whose  power  of  attraction  is  as  great  as  ever.  The  public  is 
different  from  that  of  the  afternoon,  but  not  less  numerous. 
When  a family  of  middle  class  people  want  to  spend  a really 
enjoyable  evening  they  go  to  the  cafe , and  if  they  have  company 
it  is  almost  always  necessary  to  take  them  along.  The  home  is 
not  large  enough  nor  so  arranged  that  they  enjoy  being  together 
there ; the  vast  majority  of  Parisians  do  not  appreciate  home 
sociability.  If  they  give  an  exceptionally  large  party,  they  go  to 
the  great  concert  halls  in  the  Champs-Elys6es,  where  people  sit 
in  the  open  air  and  have  the  double  view  of  the  life  in  the  street 
and  that  on  the  stage.  On  ordinary  occasions,  this  pleasure  is, 
however,  too  expensive.  The  tempting  illustrated  bills  announce 
Entree  libre , and  that  is  true  enough  ; but  when  you  once  are 
inside,  the  drink  that  you  are  obliged  to  order  there,  as  well  as 
at  all  other  cafes , costs  three  francs.  Parisians  do  not  like  to 
spend  so  much  for  their  amusements  ; they  are  accustomed  to 
getting  them  for  nothing.  The  boulevard  cafe  is  almost  as  enter- 
taining and  a great  deal  cheaper.  The  fifty  centimes  they  pay 
for  their  beer  gives  them  the  right  to  keep  their  seats  as  long  as 
they  please.  It  is  only  spendthrifts  that  order  a second  glass ; 
the  others  sit  with  their  empty  glasses  and  look  and  look.  The 
boulevard  is  radiant ; there  is  bustle  and  noise  everywhere ; new 
figures  and  changing  pictures  pass  before  the  eye  in  uninter- 


78 


PARIS  OP  TO-DAY. 


rupted  lines.  Time  passes  away  before  it  is  noticed.  The 
cafe  refreshments  are  not  needed  ; the  life,  the  noise,  and  the 


A POPULAR  CAFfi. 


air,  filled  with  the  boulevard’s  perfume,  go  to  the  head  and 
make  people  feel  dizzy,  and  when  they  go  home  it  is  as  if  they 


CAFJS  and  street  life. 


19 


had  spent  a night  of  revelry.  After  all  they  have  only  spent 
a few  hours  on  the  sidewalk.  This  is  the  secret  of  the  Parisian 
cafe. 

III. 

Fora  great  many  Parisians,  the  cafe  not  only  serves  as  a place 
of  entertainment,  but  has  an  every-day  use  in  being  at  the  same 
time  office,  study,  and  reception  room,  political  or  literary  club- 
room  and  other  such  things.  Many  old  traditions  are  in  this  way 
attached  to  it. 

The  waiter  in  the  little  historically  famous  Cafe  Procope,*  in 
the  Rue  de  l’Ancienne  Com£die,  on  the  left  bank,  shows  still 
with  pride  the  table  at  which  Voltaire  for  fifteen  years  wrote  his 
letters  to  the  King  of  Prussia ; Rousseau’s,  d’Alembert’s,  Cr£bil- 
lon’s  and  Mirabeau’s  portraits  look  down  from  the  walls  and  tell 
that  they,  too,  have  had  their  second  home  in  these  old  smoke- 
stained  rooms.  Everybody  knows  that  Gambetta  followed  their 
example.  In  this  way  famous  names  are  interwoven  with  the 
history  of  almost  every  cafe.  The  Boheme  period  especially  was 
the  golden  age  of  the  cafe.  Authors  of  even  the  greatest  talents 
had  literally  no  other  home.  When  at  last  they  were  found 
dead  in  some  garret  on  a box  filled  with  books  and  manuscripts 
that  served  as  a bed,  then  people  would  know  where  they  lived. 
Up  to  that  very  moment  nobody  had  had  any  idea  of  it,  not  even 
their  most  intimate  friends.  This  class  of  people  has  largely  dis- 
appeared ; only  a few  of  them  go  about  still  in  this  prosaic  time 
of  money.  Their  conception  of  the  cafe  was  too  truly  Parisian, 
and  suited  too  well  the  specific  French  national  inclination,  to 
disappear  with  them.  Their  successors  in  the  world  of  art,  litera- 
ture, and  politics  are  sedate  people,  who  have  system  in  their 
lives  and  system  in  their  money  matters.  They  lack  house  and 
home  so  little  that  they  often  own  a property.  Nevertheless  the 
cafe  is  still  the  place  where  they  prefer  to  settle  their  business 
with  the  world  around  them.  They  come  there  at  an  appointed 
time  every  day,  just  as  they  would  to  an  office;  they  are  only  at 
home  in  order  to  work  where  they  will  not  be  disturbed.  When 
asked  where  they  can  be  found  they  always  give  the  name  of 
their  cafe ; their  concierge  has  received  orders  to  send  people  there, 


The  existence  of  this  ancient  cafe  came  to  a close  in  1890. — [Amer.  Ed. 


So 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  Y. 


and  even  their  letters  are  sent  to  this  address.  People  may  have 
known  each  other  for  years,  met  daily  and  been  on  the  most  cor- 
dial footing,  and  yet  not  know  the  number  of  each  other’s  houses. 
The  cafes  are  almost  everywhere  literary  and  artistic  meeting- 
places,  but  here  they  are  also  political.  In  stirring  times  they 
are  the  centers  of  agitation ; opposition  is  born  and  issues  from 
them.  Gambetta  and  a great  many  other  men  who  have  come 
into  power  in  France  commenced  their  careers  in  the  cafes,  while 
cafe  discussions  and  cafe  speeches  form  the  basis  of  their  popu- 
larity. 

During  the  last  years  of  the  Empire,  Cafe  Mazarin  was  the 
headquarters  of  the  Republicans.  The  communistic  revolution 
was  conceived  there,  amidst  the  variegated  crowds  of  foreigners, 
boulevard  demi-monde , and  the  people  who  had  returned  from  New 
Caledonia.  The  Bonapartists  met  in  the  distinguished  Cafb  de 
la  Paix,  that  stands  on  the  corner  of  the  Place  de  l’Op£ra  and  the 
Boulevard  des  Capucines.  King  Henry’s  followers  sat  in  Tor- 
toni’s  solemn  rooms  and  whispered  about  their  secrets,  while  the 
white-haired  valets  served  them  their  11  petit  verre  de  Madere." 

Politics  do  not,  however,  play  as  prominent  a part  in  Paris  as 
in  the  provinces.  There  the  cafes  of  the  different  parties  are 
real  camps  that  are  in  a continual  fight.  They  do  not  confine 
themselves  to  demonstrations,  but  sometimes  even  fall  to  fight- 
ing, and  when  one  party  has  won  a great  victory  it  often  hap- 
pens that  it  closes  the  other  party’s  cafe.  A Mazarin  guest 
would  look  upon  it  as  a mortal  insult  if  you  offered  him  a glass 
of  beer  in  the  Caf6  de  la  Paix,  and  a Tortoni  guest  could  not, 
without  being  a prey  to  eternal  remorse,  put  his  feet  within  one 
of  the  ultra-Republican  cafes.  Most  Parisian  cafes  have  a par- 
ticular public  of  some  kind.  When  one  has  been  there  a few 
times  it  is  easy  to  find  the  characteristic  type  of  each  one.  The 
blustering  exchange  matadore  has  taken  possession  of  the  Cafd 
Riche,  and  sits  there,  self-satisfied,  basking  in  his  own  glory  on 
the  chairs  outside,  that  a few  years  ago  were  the  most  aristo- 
cratic ones  on  the  boulevard.  At  the  Neapolitain  every  other 
guest  wears  a red  cocarde.  It  is  the  cafd  of  the  officiers  supt- 
rieurs.  The  “ Sufede  ” gathers  the  actors  ; the  “ Americain  ” the 
boulevard  journalists ; the  “ Grand  Cafe  ” the  old  house-owners, 
and  the  “ Helder  ” the  young  high-livers.  Each  nation  among 


CAF&  AND  STREET  LIFE. 


8l 


the  foreigners  has  its  own  cafe , where  they  generally,  like  the  Ger- 
mans in  “Caf£  de  la  Terrasse”  near  the  Gymnase,  arrange  them- 
selves so  completely  after  the  costumes  and  habits  of  their  home, 
that  no  Parisian  dares  to  encroach  on  their  precincts.  From  the 
immortals  of  the  Academy  that  meet  in  the  “ Rotonde  ” of  the 
Palais  Royal  garden,  down  to  the  ragpickers  drinking  their  ab- 
sinthe with  their  colleagues  in  the  “Californie”  and  such  places, 
there  is  no  class,  no  clique,  no  party  ever  so  small,  united  by  a com- 
mon interest,  that  does  not  meet  at  the  cafe  to  talk  matters  over. 
To  this,  then,  is  added  the  crowds  of  passing  tourists,  who  are 
naturally  reduced  to  street  and  cafe  life,  and  they  do  this  the 
more  because  it  can  be  done  with  such  ease  and  comfort  in 
Paris.  The  result  is  that  every  tenth  house  has  a cafe  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  that,  out  of  the  two  million  inhabitants, 
at  least  fifty  thousand  make  their  living  as  barkeepers  or 
waiters.  But  they  are  not  the  only  ones  for  whom  the  cafe  and 
boulevard  public  is  a source  of  revenue.  The  photographer,  for 
instance,  transforms  the  neighborhood  around  the  Caf6  Riche 
into  a fairy  garden  in  full  moonlight  to  inform  the  public  that 
he  takes  pictures  by  electric  light.  The  places  of  entertainment 
hang  gas-festoons,  with  their  names  written  in  flames,  among  the 
trees  outside  of  the  cafes,  and  enterprising  tailors  present  on  the 
walls  opposite  comical  magic-lantern  pictures,  to  fix  the  public 
attention  upon  their  address,  which  forms  the  frame;  while  the 
hippodrome  arranges  long  processions  of  little  boys  dressed  up 
and  mounted  on  horseback. 

Even  apart  from  these  smart  business  men,  there  are  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  to  whom  this  Paris,  that  takes  its  after- 
dinner  rest  on  the  cafe  chairs,  is  the  only  means  of  subsistence. 
They  form  a characteristic  feature  of  street  life,  these  human 
sparrows  that  are  always  there,  eagerly  picking  up  the  crumbs 
from  the  tables  of  the  rich.  How  they  are  fed  and  sometimes 
even  thrive,  is  an  unfathomable  mystery.  One  may  watch  them 
for  hours  and  see  them  earn  at  the  utmost  a few  sous.  Yet 
many  of  them  have  at  home  more  than  one  stocking  filled  with 
gold  and  silver  coins.  Everybody  that  has  been  in  Paris  for 
only  one  day  knows  the  opera-glass  man.  From  morning  till 
night  he  walks  about  the  cafe  tables ; no  new  face  escapes  him  ; 
he  brings  out  his  opera-glass  at  once,  and  even  though  you 


PARIS  OP  TO-DAY. 


% 2 

assure  him  that  you  have  the  house  full  of  them,  you  are  not 
able  to  get  rid  of  him.  His  is  something  exceptional,  “ une 
vraie  occasion ; vons  n en  trouverez  pas  deux,"  he  assures  you, 
with  a conviction  in  his  voice  that  amounts  almost  to  passion. 
But  that  does  not  prevent  him  from  having  another  of  just  the 
same  kind  to  offer  to  somebody  else  the  minute  this  one  is  sold. 
From  year  to  year  there  is  no  difference  to  be  seen,  either  in 
him  or  his  glasses,  nor  on  the  well-polished  brass  mounting,  nor 
on  the  strap  with  which  he  carries  his  treasure,  while  his  big 
shoes  wear  furrows  in  the  asphalt  on  which  he  has  walked  back 
and  forth  millions  of  times,  always  with  the  same  gentle  steps 
and  the  wide-awake,  half-lurking  eyes.  In  his  steps  follow  an 
army  of  other  ambulant  tradesmen.  It  is  a moving  bazaar  that 
passes  by  the  boulevard  cafe,  but  always  the  same  little  articles, 
the  same  faces,  that  one  saw  half  a dozen  years  ago.  A new 
ware  and  a new  face  is  a rarity  ; nothing  is  so  conservative  as  the 
street  countenance ; perhaps  this  contributes  to  the  home  feel- 
ing one  has  in  these  streets.  Born  with  and  inseparable  from 
them//  are  the  “dumb.”  They  reason  that  nobody  ought  to 
waste  time  even  sitting  on  the  sidewalk,  and  consequently  they 
propose  the  study  of  their  sign-language  to  the  guests  as  a nice 
instructive  occupation  in  their  spare  minutes.  As  soon  as  you 
sit  down,  the  dumb  man  comes  and  puts  his  little  folded  paper 
on  the  table.  If  you  are  curious  and  only  touch  the  paper,  it  is 
looked  upon  as  a consent  to  the  proposition,  and  that  you  are 
willing  to  pay  two  sous  for  the  key  to  his  language ; but  if  the 
mysterious  paper  is  left  untouched,  and  no  look  or  gesture 
betrays  the  least  interest  for  it,  the  man  never  thinks  of  asking 
for  a contribution.  When  his  round  is  done  and  the  tables  all 
provided  with  papers,  he  collects  his  money,  and  he  knows  with 
the  greatest  exactness  those  that  have  been  curious,  and  only 
they  are  obliged  to  pay.  As  the  cafes  are  always  full  of  stran- 
gers, he  makes,  as  a rule,  a good  business.  Among  other  ever- 
returning  tradesmen  are  the  man  who  offers  for  sale  little  terriers 
and  green  paroquets ; the  confectioner’s  boys,  with  their  white 
aprons  and  the  glacdd  apples  on  a stick,  the  cane  merchant,  the 
plaster  figure  man,  the  flower  girls  with  their  beautiful  long- 
stalked  roses,  and  very  often  carrying  a young  baby,  and  the 
genial  artist  with  his  long,  gray  hair,  the  Tam  O’Shanter,  the 


cafA  and  street  life. 


83 


gymnasium  shoes,  and  a large  oil  painting  under  each  arm,  which, 
owing  to  momentary  want  of  money,  he  wishes  to  dispose  of  to 
a connoisseur  at  whose  home  they  may  be  properly  set  off. 

The  representatives  of  Parisian  industry  on  a small  scale  are 
very  numerous;  every  half-minute  you  must  make  gigantic  efforts 
to  escape  buying  imitation  watch-chains,  sleeve  buttons,  jumping 
jacks,  little  devils  with  a lead  weight  in  their  tails,  or  shaving 
serpents  that  fall  out  of  their  paper  coverings  with  a somersault. 
They  are  all  ridiculously  cheap,  but  the  quality  is  according  to 
the  price. 

Paris  is  a queer  city,  for  at  every  step  one  sees  the  most  refined 
luxury  side  by  side  with  the  worst  sort  of  trash.  The  greatest 
extravagance  goes  hand  in  hand  with  misery.  The  merry-go- 
round,  where  the  owner  is  at  the  same  time  horse,  crier,  and 
clown,  stands  in  the  Champs-Elysdes  close  to  Ledoyen’s  restau- 
rant ; the  apple-woman’s  booth,  without  roof  or  window,  is  near 
the  jeweler’s  shop  where  there  are  articles  worth  half  a million. 
The  ragged,  bareheaded  boy,  who  to-day  sells  his  matches  at  the 
cafe,  may  in  a few  years  be  one  of  the  rich  men  of  the  world.  In 
a city  like  Paris  it  is  only  talent  and  energy  that  are  demanded, 
and  the  young  dandy,  who  carelessly  throws  his  half-smoked 
Havana  cigar  under  the  cafe  table,  may  soon  be  recognized  in 
the  lazzarone,  with  the  filthy  oilskin  bag  and  the  long  stick,  on 
the  end  of  which  is  a sharp,  iron  point, — the  cigar-picker,  one  of 
the  most  peculiar  human  sparrows  of  the  boulevard.  He  comes 
with  the  earliest  guests  and  only  disappears  between  one  and 
two  in  the  morning,  when  the  last  marauders  have  left  the  side- 
walk. There  is  not  the  smallest  cigar-stump  thrown  down  but 
he  falls  upon  it  at  once,  picks  it  up  with  his  hook  and  puts  it  in 
the  bag.  He  has  the  sharp  eye  and  the  boldness  of  the  sparrow, 
and  he  is  tolerated  and  almost  protected  like  the  sparrows  in  the 
Tuileries  gardens.  He  works  his  way  fearlessly  through  the 
densest  crowds  to  pick  up  his  crumbs  from  the  tables  that  stand 
farthest  away,  and  people  make  room  for  him.  It  is  his  position 
in  life  to  pick  up  cigar-stumps,  and  in  Paris  all  positions  are 
respected. 

The  great  city  has  its  fight  for  existence,  the  wilder  and  more 
desperate  the  larger  it  is,  but  it  offers  besides  so  many  more 
possibilities  for  support,  that  nobody  who  really  wants  to  live 


84 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


is  ever  left  behind.  This  is  the  one  great  blessing.  If  people 
have  to  work  their  way  in  the  world  the  cafe  sidewalk  is  there, 
and  more  than  one  millionaire  has  commenced  by  selling  his 
small  articles  here.  It  is  the  great  meeting-place  where  the 
whole  city  takes  its  rest,  and  it  is  also  the  fair  where  it  shows 
best  all  the  peculiarities  and  types  it  possesses.  It  is  Paris  in 
essence;  Paris  displaying  the  most  variegated,  most  radiating, 
most  singularly  attractive  side  of  her  character. 


THE  CIGAR-STUMP  PICKER. 


VIII. 

Cabs  and  Cabmen. 


T 


'HE  Parisian  cabs  of  the  day 
are  true  model  cabs.  Once 
upon  a time  there  were  in  this 
city,  as  well  as  in  all  others,  those 
jolting  vehicles  that  were  the 
horror  of  our  fathers.  They  had 
to  climb  up  innumerable  steps  in  order  to  take 
their  seat,  which  was  covered  with  yellow  velvet, 
and  about  as  comfortable  as  a full  pincushion.  The  straw  in  the 
bottom  was  always  damp  and  the  windows  always  broken,  so  that 
a certain  amount  of  rheumatism  was  the  inevitable  result  of  a 
drive.  The  driver — always  cross,  in  a dirty  cloak  with  seven 
equally  dirty  capes,  a heavy  woolen  cap  on  his  head,  and  gener- 
ally on  top  of  that  a hat  which  had  seen  better  days,  his  feet 
encased  in  immense  wooden  shoes,  who  would  never  think  of 
ascending  to  his  box  without  first  having  lit  his  pipe  with  due 
ceremony;  and  when  he  started  finally,  the  noise  of  the 
heavy  carriage  on  the  irregular  pavement  was  enough  to 
deafen  almost  anybody.  The  driver’s  slowness  was  so  well 
known  that,  when  in  a hurry,  people  preferred  to  walk.  But 
this  rudimentary  period  lies  as  far  back  as  the  time  before 
Haussmann.  Over  the  modern  boulevard  rolls  a carriage 
worthy  of  it  in  every  respect.  There  are  two  types,  the 
little  opera  cabriolet  for  the  summer  months  and  the  closed 
coupi,  both  with  a single  seat  made  for  two  persons  and 
provided  with  a small  seat,  that  can  be  let  down  in  case  you 
want  to  make  room  for  a third.  The  double-seated  cabs,  that 
were  seen  once  in  a while  a few  years  ago,  have  not  entirely  dis- 
appeared. Still,  in  Paris  the  normal  number  is  two,  and  if  you 
indulge  in  the  luxury  of  having  a family,  you  must  provide 

85 


86 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


yourself  with  your  own  conveyance,  if  you  are  not  satisfied 
with  the  cab  arranged  to  carry  trunks  and  generally  looked 
upon  as  the  pariah  among  cabs.  The  coupes  are  there  summer  and 
winter.  A lady  who  obeys  the  laws  of  etiquette  can  only  ride 
in  a closed  carriage  when  she  is  not  accompanied  by  a gentle- 
man. The  open  cabs  are  taken  in  with  the  first  snow-fall  and 
only  reappear  when  the  last  snow  melts,  or  at  the  time  when  it 
ought  to  do  so.  The  state  of  calendar  is  taken  more  into  con- 
sideration than  the  state  of  the  weather,  and  on  an  early  spring 


“ IN  PARIS  THE  NORMAL  NUMBER  IS  TWO  . 


day  when  the  sky  is  blue  and  the  sun  shines  bright  on  the  bud- 
ding chestnut-trees,  when  Paris  looks  like  the  Paradise  described 
by  the  poets,  you  may  seek  half  a day  without  finding  an  open 
cab,  and  if  you  do  succeed,  have  to  pay  the  man  a louis  d' or  to 
tempt  him  to  drive  you.  But,  after  all,  the  pleasure  is  really 
worth  the  pains  and  the  money,  especially  if  you  are  “two  souls 
with  but  one  thought.”  The  cab  in  itself  has  the  true,  light 
Parisian  elegance.  So  well  it  looks  with  its  top  that  can  be 
raised  in  rain  or  strong  sunlight,  and  with  its  velvet  or  leather 


87 


88 


Paris  of  to-day. 


cushions,  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  it  from  the  private  caf- 
riages,  unless  you  are  near  enough  to  see  the  number.  It  is  an 
exception  if  it  is  not  well  kept ; a poor  wretch,  not  favored  by 
fortune,  may  be  obliged  to  come  with  a conveyance  and  nag  in 
as  miserable  a state  as  he  is  in  himself,  but  for  the  companies  or 
co-operate  societies,  it  is  a point  of  honor  to  offer  a turn-out 
comme  il  faut.  The  carriage  is,  every  evening  when  it  returns, 

thoroughly  washed  and  cleaned ; 
and  as  to  the  driver,  it  is  only  dur- 
ing the  dog-days  that  he  allows 
himself  the  liberty  of  wearing  a 
straw  hat,  with  a many-colored  rib- 
bon ; at  all  other  times,  he  is  as 
correct  as  anybody  could  wish  him 
to  be.  And  this  little  agile  carriage 
glides  along  the  street  under  the 
chestnut  trees,  along  the  macadam- 
ized, freshly  watered  avenues,  as 
gracefully  as  a swan. 

The  drive  is  often  so  agreeable 
that  the  distance  seems  too  short 
and  the  speed  unnecessarily  quick. 
The  rates  are  not  high.  Inside  the 
city  limits,  the  price  is  always  one 
and  a half  franc  whether  you  take 
a drive  for  two  minutes  or  one  of 
an  hour  ; all  the  difference  is  that 
you  pay  a fee  of  fifty  centimes  for 
the  long  one  and  twenty-five,  the 
minimum  that  you  can  offer,  for 
the  short  one.  For  a drive  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne,  or  to  any  other 
place  outside  of  the  limits,  you  pay  two  and  a half  francs  per 
hour,  and  in  case  you  leave  the  cab  outside  of  the  city  an  extra 
franc  for  the  drive  back.  These  moderate  prices  cause  cabs  to  be 
used  more  in  Paris  than  in  any  other  city.  The  number  rented 
out  each  day  averages  10,000,  and  they  are  used  by  everybody, 
rich  and  poor  alike.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  see  three  or  four 
workmen  take  one  together  in  the  morning  to  go  to  the  place 


THE  COOK  SENDS  FOR  HER  CAB. 


CABS  AND  CABMEN. 


89 


where  they  are  employ- 
ed, and  when  it  rains,  the 
cook,  who  is  obliged  to 
go  to  the  halles  for  her 
marketing,  often  sends 
for  a cab.  The  only 
drawback  is  that,  when 
anything  of  any  impor- 
tance takes  place,  the 
demand  far  exceeds  the 
supply,  and  this  of  course 
is  a serious  drawback. 

The  Parisian  cabman 
is,  after  all,  not  especial- 
ly anxious  to  sit  on  his 
box.  There  are  gener- 
ally cabs  enough  at  the 
stopping-places,  but  the 
drivers  fail  to  be  there  ; 
they  are  au  rendez-vous. 
Every  other  saloon  is 
marked  “ au  rendez-vous 
des  cockers ,”  and  it  fully 
comes  up  to  its  name. 
These  gentlemen  are 
comfortable  enough  with 
their  bottles  and  cards, 
and  do  not  like  to  be 
disturbed.  There  they 
are  just  trying  .to  get  a 
mouthful  to  eat,  they  ex- 
plain, have  been  so  busy 
that  they  have  not  tasted 
anything  for  an  eternity. 
If  you  would  be  kind 
enough  to  use  a col- 
league of  theirs  they 
would  be  much  obliged, 
as  they  are  just  on  the 


UNE  STATION  DE  FIACRES. 


9o 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


point  of  going  to  the  stables  to  change  their  horse.  A cabman 
in  Paris  is,  at  whatever  time  of  the  day  you  seek  him,  always  on 
his  way  to  change  his  horse.  If  you  want  his  assistance  for  only 
a very  short  distance  he  may,  if  nothing  especially  interesting 
is  taking  place,  be  induced  to  drive  for  you,  but  if  you  want 
him  for  an  hour’s  drive,  his  horse  is  disabled  just  at  that  mo- 
ment. When  at  the  cab  station  he  ought,  according  to  the  rules, 
to  start  in  spite  of  everything  ; but  there  is  also  another  law 
stating  that  the  cab  first  in  the  row  is  always  at  your  disposal. 
The  policemen,  who  are  apt  to  side  with  the  drivers,  understand 
by  this  that  the  customer  is  obliged  to  take  number  one,  even  if 
it  be  closed  when  he  happens  to  want  an  open  one,  or  dirty 
when  he  is  particularly  anxious  to  get  a clean  one.  In  this  way 


his  majesty  the  cabman  is  protected  from  the  inconvenience  of 
being  disturbed  against  his  will  at  the  rendez-vous.  If  his  cab  is 
not  at  the  station,  he  is  under  no  obligation  to  drive.  When 
some  great  day  comes  and  everybody  wants  a carriage,  or  even 
only  on  a beautiful  spring  day  when  the  whole  city  feels  tempted 
to  go  out  into  the  country,  all  the  stations  are  from  the  early 
morning  as  if  deserted.  With  well-polished  harness  and  shining 
coat-buttons,  and  feeling  himself  of  great  importance,  this  cab 
potentate  drives  over  the  asphalt  without  condescending  to  look 
at  anybody.  The  customers  stand  in  crowds  on  the  pavement 
calling,  beckoning  and  whistling,  but  he  sits  immovable  in  all  his 
glory,  and  sees  and  hears  nothing.  He  does  not  dare  to  stop, 
for  if  once  he  enters  into  a discussion  he  betrays  that  he  is  not 
engaged,  and  the  one  who  has  succeeded  in  stopping  him  can 


CABS  AND  CABMEN. 


91 


jump  into  the  carriage  and  order  him  to  drive,  and  if  he  should 
refuse  he  may  be  arrested.  However  nice  looking  the  customer 
is,  he  may  intend  to  drive  home  first  to  get  his  wife  and  children 
and  then  spend  the  day  in  the  cab  at  two  francs  an  hour,  and  finally 
give  a fee  of  only  one  franc.  The  cautious  cabman  does  not  dare 
to  run  any  such  risk.  If  he  does  not  get  his  money  in  advance 
for  the  whole  day,  he  must  at  least  be  sure  of  whom  he  has  to 
do  with,  for  his  plan  is  to  make  enough  money  that  day  to  allow 
him  to  make  long  and  frequent  visits  at  the  rendez-vous.  His 
habits  are  by  no  means  of  a Spartan  nature.  The  breakfasts 


A GOOD  CIGAR  WHILE  WAITING. 


he  takes  at  his  rendez-vous  would  be  good  enough  for  any  one  to 
offer  his  friends,  and  the  pipe  that  was  indispensable  to  his  pre- 
decessor has  been  replaced  by  a good  cigar,  which  is  thoroughly 
appreciated  not  only  in  his  idle  moments  but  also  when  he  is  sit- 
ting on  his  box.  His  salary  of  five  to  six  francs  a day,  given 
him  by  the  company,  or  even  the  seven  that  he  may  sometimes 
obtain  after  a strike,  are  not  sufficient  for  his  luxurious  habits, 
and  the  rest  must  be  supplied  in  other  less  lawful  ways.  His 
terms  are  either  to  deliver  to  the  company  the  whole  profit  of 
the  day  with  the  exception  of  the  fees  given  him,  or  to  pay  a 
certain  amount  of  money  each  day,  the  sum  corresponding  to 


92 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  average  profit.  In  the  first  case  he  tries  to  cheat  the  com- 
pany, in  the  second  the  public.  If  he  is  very  clever  he  may  soon 
succeed  in  cheating  the  company  out  of  a hundred  franc  bill. 

The  policemen  try,  by  taking  notes  of  the  leaving  and  return- 
ing of  the  cabs,  to  establish  some  means  of  controlling  them,  and 
the  company  use  another  stratagem,  more  feared  by  the  drivers  ; 
they  offer  the  business  men,  who  are  obliged  to  use  cabs  freely,  a 
considerable  discount  if  they  will  send  in  the  number  of  their 
driver  with  an  account  of  the  time  he  has  given  to  them.  But 
there  will  never  be  a perfect  control  until  some  self-acting  machine 
is  invented  to  do  the  work.  It  is  easier  to  cheat  the  company  than 


AN  EVENING  DRIVE  IN  THE  BOIS  DE  BOULOGNE. 


the  people,  for  a Parisian  knows  the  taxes  by  heart,  and  the  only 
circumstance  under  which  he  is  able  to  forget  the  time  is  when 
they  are  two  in  the  cab  taking  an  evening  drive  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  ; but  at  all  other  times  he  is  on  his  guard,  and  ready 
to  call  in  the  police  if  he  should  find  himself  imposed  upon. 
Formerly,  when  the  driver  was  convicted  of  swindling,  he  was 
not  only  suspended  from  his  position  for  some  time,  but  was 
obliged  to  make  his  humblest  excuses  to  the  complainer,  at 
the  same  time  restoring  the  money  and  getting  a receipt  for  it, 
directed  to  the  police-prefecture. 

The  Collignon  affair  was  a sad  proof  of  the  danger  of  this  pro- 


CABS  AND  CABMEN. 


93 


ceeding.  The  principal  of  a school  in  Douai  engaged  Collignon 
on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  drive  him  and  his  wife  to  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  The  man,  seeing  that  they  were  strangers, 
asked  more  than  his  due.  The  next  day  the  principal  sent  in 
his  complaint,  on  receipt  of  which  Collignon  was  ordered  to 
return  the  money.  On  the  way  he  bought  a revolver,  and  when 
the  principal  turned  to  write  the  receipt  Collignon  shot  him 
through  the  head,  and  he  fell  dead  on  the  spot.  The  revengeful 
driver  was  sentenced  to  death,  and  to  call  a Parisian  driver  a 
Collignon  is  to  this  day  the  deadliest  insult.  Since  then  the 
money  is  returned  through  the  police,  and  the  driver  simply  sus- 
pended from  work  and  sometimes  imprisoned.  There  is  at  the 
police  prefecture  a prison  especially  for  cabmen,  and  I am  sorry 
to  say  that  it  is  generally  well  filled.  The  Parisian  drivers  are 
not  exactly  models  of  virtue.  The  profession  is  not  only  taken 
up  by  honest  peasants  and  other  beings  who  have  an  innate 
capacity  for  managing  horses,  but  also  by  individuals  who  only 
ascend  the  box  because  they  have  fallen  from  the  height  of  their 
former  profession.  You  will  find  all  classes  represented:  ex- 
waiters and  ex-barbers,  photographers,  students,  and  ministers, 
and  sometimes  even  noblemen  who  have  been  ruined  in  this 
Babylon  on  the  Seine,  and  think  that  under  the  driver’s  coat 
they  may  yet,  to  a certain  extent,  continue  their  vie  facile.  The 
morals  and  customs  of  some  of  these  gentlemen  leave  much  to 
be  desired  ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  both  the  company  and  the 
police  take  certain  measures  to  restrict  them.  The  applicants 
must  show  their  papers  and  pass  an  examination,  proving  that 
they  can  fulfill  the  demands  of  the  profession.  If  he  is  good  for 
nothing  else  he  generally  knows  how  to  drive  well,  and  even 
when  he  has  taken  a little  too  much  at  the  rendez-vous,  he  drives 
with  perfect  mastership  under  all  the  difficulties  of  the  boule- 
vards. When  he  is  sure  of  a good  customer,  who  pays  him  well 
at  the  last,  the  all-important  moment,  he  may  be  exceedingly 
obliging  and  jovial  and  make  the  drive  as  agreeable  as  possible. 


THE  omnibuses  are  one  of  the  most  important  features  of  the 
city.  The  distances  are  too  great  and  time  is  too  precious  for 
walking.  As  soon  as  people  have  500  francs  a month  to  spare, 
they  keep  their  own  carriage ; if  they  are  “ somebody,”  they 
must  have  it  as  a proof  of  their  position ; if  they  have  not  as  yet 
attained  this  enviable  state,  the  carriage  offers  the  means  by 
which  they  reach  it.  To  get  to  the  shopping  district  one  takes  a 
cab,  and  only  walks  when  forced  to.  One’s  pocket-book  and 
good  health  suffer  by  it ; though  the  doctors  may  spend  half  their 
time  advising  their  patients  to  walk,  for  exercise,  it  is  of  no  use; 
they  are  willing  enough  to  take  gymnastics  and  fence  as  much  as 
the  doctor  wishes,  but  walk!  oh,  dear,  no;  he  cannot  possibly 
mean  that ! For  want  of  a coup6  or  a victoria  they  take  the  first 
cab,  and,  in  the  absence  of  that,  the  omnibus. 

In  1888,  the  private  company  that  controls  all  these  convey- 
ances accommodated  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  million  pas- 
sengers. The  omnibuses  are  not  very  old,  however.  Pascal,  the 
author  of  “ Les  Provinciales,”  seems  to  have  introduced  them 
under  Louis  XIV.  His  vehicle,  h cinq  sous,  followed  a given 


94 


r 


95 


ON  THE  TOP  OF  AN  OMNIBUS  (AFTER  A PAINTING  OF  H.  BACON). 


96 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


route,  and  stopped  to  take  up  passengers.  They  did  not  meet 
with  success ; the  times  were  not  democratic  enough.  The 
bourgeoisie  used  them  once  in  a while,  but  when  one  of  the 
nobility  condescended  to  use  them  it  was  an  event  spoken  of  by 
all  the  papers,  and,  as  to  the  lower  classes,  they  were  excluded 
from  the  privilege.  Pascal’s  invention  soon  died  out. 

With  the  beginning  of  this  century  the  scheme  was  taken  up 
again,  and  the  inventor,  Boudry,  coined  at  the  same  time  the 
good  word  “ omnibus.”  When  he  first  presented  his  project 
to  the  police  prefect  he  was  shown  away,  like  all  other  Colum- 
buses ; but,  after  having  carried  it  out  in  his  native  city,  Nantes, 


THE  MADELEINE- BASTILLE  OMNIBUS. 

and  given  a proof  of  what  he  intended  to  do,  he  received  also  in 
Paris  the  authorization  he  had  asked  for.  A hundred  carriages 
were  sent  out.  They  started  from  a certain  station,  followed  a 
route  appointed  by  the  authorities,  and  had  fourteen  seats,  the 
price  of  each  being  five  sous.  They  were  drawn  by  three  horses, 
harnessed  in  tandem,  and  the  driver  blew  mournful  tunes  to 
announce  his  coming.  The  new  omnibuses  came  in  the  fulness 
of  time,  and  met  with  great  success.  Everybody  wanted  to  use 
them  ; they  were  always  full,  and  requests  for  new  concessions 
poured  in.  Public  conveyances  were  for  some  years  the  main 
objects  of  speculation,  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds  made  their  ap- 


PARISIAN  OMNIBUSES. 


97 


pearance,  with  more  or  less  success,  until,  in  1855,  the  different 
companies  formed  one  and  obtained  from  the  municipal  authorities 
the  monopoly  of  public  conveyances.  This  arrangement  still 
remains  in  force.  The  company  pays  a certain  per  cent,  of  the 
profit  to  the  city,  and  takes  upon  itself  a considerable  share  of 
the  snow-shoveling,  besides  paying  a number  of  indirect  taxes 
that  accumulate  in  the  course  of  time.  The  company  is,  for 
instance,  obliged  to  have  its  provision  houses  within  the  walls  of 
the  city,  and  consequently  pays  an  excise  on  provisions  amount- 
ing to  over  one-half  million  francs  a year.  To  make  up  for  this, 
it  does  not  go  to  great  expense  to  modernize  the  stages  on  the 
less  frequented  routes  ; those  on  the  principal  lines,  drawn  btf 


CLOSE  QUARTERS  INSIDE  AN  OMNIBUS. 


three  horses  abreast,  as,  for  instance,  between  the  Madeleine  and 
the  Bastille,  where  the  stages  leave  every  three  minutes,  are,  of 
course,  without  blemish,  but  there  are  still  seen,  in  other  parts, 
some  of  quite  an  antediluvian  pattern.  One  must  be  a good 
gymnast  to  be  able  to  ascend  the  three  iron  steps  to  the  imperial 
without  accident,  and  must  be  endowed  with  a natural  taste  for 
close  quarters  to  make  an  omnibus  trip,  of  sometimes  over  an 
hour,  without  being  crushed  to  death. 

With  the  praiseworthy  aim  of  benefiting  as  many  as  possible 
the  omnibus  makes  all  possible  turns  and  twists  on  its  way,  and 
the  noisy  jolting  movement  over  the  pavement  in  the  narrow 


98 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


streets  brings  the  passengers  into  a drowsy  state  that  would 
lessen  the  tediousness  of  the  trip  if  it  did  not  bring  with  it 
another  inconvenience.  No  place  is  more  haunted  by  pick- 
pockets than  the  stages.  There  is  an  especial  way  of  stealing 
much  practised  here  that,  while  it  requires  a quick  eye  and  a 
skilful  hand,  has  the  advantage  of  not  being  easily  discovered. 
While  the  thief  gives  himself  the  air  of  being  completely  en- 
grossed in  his  paper,  he  holds  between  his  fingers  a small  lead 
bullet,  fastened  to  a long  thread  of  thin  black  silk.  When  his 
neighbor  takes  out  his  pocket-book  to  pay  the  fare,  he  seizes  the 
opportunity  when  it  is  about  to  be  closed  to  drop  in  the  weight. 
As  soon  as  he  sees  his  victim  sufficiently  taken  up  with  his  own 


thoughts  he  begins  to  pull 
softly  and  cautiously.  If  the 
pocketbook  does  not  follow 
easily,  he  waits  till  the  stage 
stops  with  a jolt,  and  then 
makes  believe  to  be  thrown 
over  upon  his  neighbor.  He 
makes  his  excuses,  but  a little 
jerk  has  put  the  purse  in  his 
possession,  and,  beckoning  the 
conductor  to  stop,  he  steps 
out  with  his  capture.  The 
control  kept  of  the  fares  is  by 
no  means  perfect.  For  each 
passenger  the  conductor  pulls 


THE  OMNIBUS  DRIVER. 


a bell-rope  connected  with  a little  box,  where  a number  appears 
to  indicate  the  corresponding  number  of  passengers.  The  stage 
being  narrow  people  generally  pass  the  money  to  the  conductor 
by  their  neighbors.  At  each  station  a monitor  appears  to  take 
his  notes,  and  makes  several  marks  on  a card,  which  the  conductor 
keeps  ; sometimes  these  two  men  do  not  quite  agree  on  the 
number  of  the  marks,  and  a discussion  ensues,  during  which  the 
monitor  does  not  show  himself  as  superior  in  his  language  as  he 
is  in  his  position.  The  company  seems,  on  the  whole,  to  be  less 
successful  in  the  choice  of  its  higher  employes.  The  drivers 
are,  on  an  average,  clever,  and  the  conductor  fills  remarkably 
well  a position  that  is  by  no  means  as  easy  as  it  seems,  He 


PARISIAN  OMNIBUSES. 


99 


stands  all  day  long  on  the  little  step  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
stopping  it  for  the  passengers,  taking  in  fares,  giving  combination 
tickets,  answering  all  the  impossible  questions  put  to  him  about 
how  to  reach  this  or  that  place  in  the  easiest  way.  There  seems 
indeed  to  be  nothing  in  this  world  about  which  the 
passengers  do  not  ask  the  conductor.  If  he  should 
lose  his  temper  it  would  be  no  wonder,  but  he  hard- 
ly ever  does.  He  is  politeness  itself ; assists  old  gen- 
tlemen to  mount,  warns  the  imprudent,  and  helps 
the  ladies.  The  monitors,  on  the  other  hand,  seem 
to  think  that  they  are  there  to  make  the  drive  as 
disagreeable  as  possible  to  the  passengers,  and  Conductor5 
they  display,  in  the  consciousness  of  their  supe- 
rior position,  a true  bureaucratic  discourtesy.  The  expense  of 
keeping  them  is  several  hundred  thousand  francs  a year,  but 
to  a company  whose  yearly  average  income  is  one  hundred  and 
thirteen  millions,  and  the  expenses  one  hundred  and  eight  mil- 
lions, this  point  is  of  so  little  importance  that  it  spends  another 


AT  THE  OMNIBUS  STATION  IN  THE  RAIN. 


sum  of  eighty-three  thousand  francs  for  detectives  to  control 
the  monitors.  All  this  would  probably  be  unnecessary  if  they 
adopted  the  control  system  of  other  cities. 

In  spite  of  some  inconveniences  that  the  monopoly  system 
has  caused,  there  have  been  worked  of  late  many  improvements. 
The  public  can,  for  instance,  for  their  six  sous  ride  from  one  end 


IOO 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


of  the  city  to  the  other,  sometimes  distances  of  four  miles  in  one 
drive.  However  great  the  distance  may  be,  good  care  is  taken 
not  to  tire  the  horses.  A horse  never  runs  more  than  sixteen 
kilometres  a day,  and  spends  the  remaining  time  in  the  stable, 
where  it  is  well  taken  care  of.  The  same  horses  are,  if  possible, 
harnessed  to  the  same  stage,  with  their  own  driver,  and  stand, 

when  in  the  stable,  beside 
each  other,  eating  out  of 
the  same  manger.  In  this 
way  they  grow  to  know  each 
other  and  work  together,  the 
best  of  friends.  The  much 
admired  quickness  and  in- 
telligence of  the  omnibus 
horses,  that  know  how  to 
find  their  way  through  all 
the  obstacles  of  the  crowded 
street,  is  simply  the  result 
of  a steady  co-operation. 
The  passenger  can  go  almost 
any  chosen  distance  for  his 
six  sous,  by  means  of  the 
combination  tickets,  always 
given  on  request.  He  only 
needs  to  present  them  at  the 
station  where  he  changes, 
and  receives  in  exchange  his 
numtro  for  the  stage  he 
wants  to  take  ; these  tickets  are  not  as  impracticable  as  they 
may  seem  to  be. 

Every  evening,  at  the  time  when  business  stops,  the  stations 
are  filled  with  people,  and  it  is  still  worse  when  it  rains.  The 
ladies  especially  are  never  dressed  to  walk  in  the  wet,  and  at  the 
first  sign  of  a raindrop  they  come  running  from  all  directions. 
They  receive  their  numbered  ticket  and  wait  under  a roof  till 
their  number  is  called  out.  When  the  stage  is  full,  it  is  marked 
complete  and  this  happens  pretty  frequently  when  the  crowd  is 
largest  and  when  everybody  wants  to  get  home  in  time  for  din- 
ner. If  people  do  not  want  to  take  a cab,  and  are  not  dressed 


PARISIAN  OMNIBUSES. 


ioi 

to  sit  on  the  top,  trying  to  forget  the  rain  in  a,  conversation  with 
the  jovial  driver,  who  is  always  most  communicative  in  the  rain, 
they  may  be  obliged  to  wait  for  hours.  The  company  has  about 
three  hundred  omnibuses  and  half  as  many  cars  at  its  disposal ; 
each  travels  about  eighty-seven  kilometres 
a day  and  uses  fifteen  horses.  If  a new  line 
is  necessary,  or  more  conveyances  required 
on  an  old  one,  the  municipal  council 
always  reminds  the  company  of  the  fact 
that  it  is  there  not  only  to  earn  money  but 
also  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  the  public. 

Sometimes  heavy  controversies  arise,  but 
generally  the  council  conquers  and  carries 
its  point.  A short  time  ago,  for  instance, 
the  council  had  to  try  the  last  remedy  and 
declared  the  monopoly  abolished.  The 
company  then  gave  way  and  the  new  lines  were  founded.  All 
things  considered,  Paris  is,  perhaps,  in  regard  to  public  convey- 
ances,* better  supplied  than  most  large  cities. 

* The  author  evidently  refers  to  ^^-conveyances  only,  the  railroad  accommodation 
in  Paris  being  null  as  compared  with  that  of  London,  for  instance. — [Amer.  Ed. 


THE  JOVIAL  DRIVER. 


X. 

The  Newsmen. 


THE  Paris  street  has  constantly 
new  types,  that  appear  as  per- 
sonifications of  the  character  of  the 
period,  even  if  sometimes  in  an 
exaggerated  form.  Our  time  has 
produced  one  which  is  extremely 
characteristic  of  the  social  condi- 
tion of  the  day.  This  is  the  golden 
age  of  advertisements.  The  rule, 
“ My  son,  if  you  want  to  succeed  in 
this  world,  learn  to  bow  your  head,” 


has  been  replaced  by  a new  one,  “ Blow  the  trumpet  and  beat 
the  drum.”  Notoriety  is  the  corner-stone  upon  which  every  one 
builds ; without  the  drums  nobody  gets  on  now,  least  of  all  in 
Paris.  It  is  therefore  very  natural  that  the  drummers  should 
feel  their  importance,  and  have  become  conspicuous  and  respect- 
demanding personages.  The  flower  of  their  troop  is  the  news- 
men. These  have  conquered  the  streets  ; and,  feeling  themselves 
masters,  claim  their  right  as  modern  pretorians  to  choose  for 


102 


THE  NEWSMEH. 


I63 


Caesar,  the  hero  in  whose  ranks  they  serve.  Before  the  com- 
mencement of  this  decennary,  which  brought  Paris  the  privilege 
of  unrestricted  freedom  of  the  press,  it  was  not  lawful  to  sell 
papers  in  the  street  without  special  permission,  which  was 
given  to  a very  few,  and,  during  the  Empire,  almost  entirely  to 
discharged  soldiers.  The  day  the  chambers  met,  the  printers 
of  the  Moniteur  Officiel  gave  out  five  thousand  to  six  thousand 
copies  of  the  emperor’s  opening  speech  to  everybody  who  wanted 
to  sell  them,  and  as  soon  as  the  cannon  announced  the  opening 
of  the  session  they  were  allowed  to  cry  the  papers  as  much  as 
they  pleased.  But  this  was  an  exception  made  for  that  day ; at 
all  other  times  good  care  was  taken  that  nobody  should  interfere 
with  the  privileges  of  the  kiosks  to  dispose  of  the  products  of 
the  press.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  a simple  announcement  of  the 
intention  to  take  up  this  business  is  sufficient  to  exercise  it. 
Anybody  can  write  to  the  police  prefect  to  inform  him  that  he 
intends  selling  papers  in  the  streets  after  such  and  such  a date. 
He  gets  in  answer  a note  telling  him  that  his  communication  has 
been  received,  and  this  formality  is  equal  to  a permit.  In  the 
archives  of  the  prefecture  there  are  about  thirty-five  thousand  let- 
ters of  this  kind.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  only  a minority 
of  these  canvassers  follow  up  the  profession.  They  took  their 
bundle  of  papers  some  day  when  they  had  no  work,  but  returned 
to  their  original  trade  as  soon  as  possible,  the  profit  of  the  news- 
paper trade  being  but  small.  The  great  competition  has  pro- 
duced a lowering  in  the  prices  ; most  of  the  papers  sold  in  the 
streets  are  one  sou  and  of  the  same  size  as  the  three  sous  ones. 
There  is  consequently  only  a small  profit  to  the  sellers,  who 
generally  have  to  pay  three  or  three  and  one-half  francs  for 
every  hundred  copies.  The  company  is  only  on  special  occasions 
willing  to  let  them  have  it  for  two,  as  for  instance  to  help 
some  political  party  or  as  an  advertisement  to  start  a new  paper. 
But  in  this  case  the  copies  left  over  are  never  taken  back,  and 
the  canvasser  runs  the  risk,  and  may,  when  he  has  spent  the  day 
wearing  out  his  lungs  and  feet,  have  so  many  left  on  his  hands 
that  his  profit  is  lost.  Only  those  that  have  been  in  the  pro- 
fession a life-time  know  how  to  make  it  pay.  The  omnibus 
station  is  their  real  workshop  ; every  time  a stage  stops  they 
come  running  with  long  sticks,  on  the  end  of  which  the  papers 


104  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

are  fastened.  They  pass  them  in  this  way  to  the  passengers  on 
the  top,  and  their  masterly  composed  cries*  about  the  astonish- 
ing and  interesting  news,  you  will  find,  tempt  somebody  or  other 
to  kill  the  time  by  reading  them,  and  a sou  is  thrown  down 
and  skillfully  caught.  Between  the  arrivals  of  the  omnibuses 
they  make  friends  with  the  monitor  in  the  waiting-room  ; they 
lend  him  their  papers,  and  are,  in  reward,  treated  with  a little 
glass  in  the  saloon  at  the  corner.  This  is  their  greatest  and  only 

treat.  They  are 
modest,  and  have 
learned  to  be  con- 
tented with  little. 

In  the  mixed 
crowds  of  those  who 
seek  their  fortune  in 
the  trade,  at  times 
when  particular  cir- 
cumstances make  it 
flourish,  the  very 
worst  types  are  to 
be  seen;  all  the 
most  dismal  looking 
candidates  for  la  vie 
facile  are  represent- 
ed ; but  the  regular 
staff  is  composed  of 
poor,  resigned  crea- 
tures, who  have 
learned  by  experi- 
ence that  Paris  is  a 
city  where  it  is  difficult  to  fight  one’s  way,  and  where  one 
ought  to  be  happy  to  be  able  to  earn  enough  for  bread 
and  shelter  for  himself  and  his  family.  It  is  only  during 
the  few  hours  at  lunch  and  dinner-time,  when  the  traffic  is 
unusually  great,  that  he  can  stay  at  the  omnibus  station ; 
during  the  rest  of  the  day  he  goes  to  more  distant  quarters  of 


* A recent  law  forbids  newspaper  vendors  to  cry  anything  but  the  name  of  the  paper 
and  that  of  its  rtJacteur. — [Amer.  Ed. 


THE  NEWSMEN. 


105 

the  city.  He  does  not  have  much  confidence  in  the  boulevards; 
it  is  of  course  the  best  market  for  the  papers,  as  well  during  the 
absinthe  time  as  immediately  after  the  papers  have  been  given 
out,  and  during  the  hours  of  a warm  evening  when  everybody 
walks  under  the  trees  to  get  a little  fresh  air;  but  the  good  places 
on  the  boulevard  are  soon  found  by  the  novices  of  the  trade,  and 
so  many  of  them  gather  round  one  spot  that  each  gets  but 
a small  profit. 

As  soon  as  the  experienced  newsman  has  received  the  papers, 
he  looks  them  over  quickly  to  see  if  there  is  an  accident  or  a 
sensation  of  some  sort  that  would  be  likely  to  create  demand  in 
a certain  part  of  the  city.  If  there  is,  he  goes  there  to  call  out 


THE  EVENING  NEWSPAPER  ON  THE  BOULEVARD. 


the  awful  details  of  the  case  through  the  quiet  streets.  He 
takes  good  care  to  be  at  the  factories  and  shops  when  the  work- 
men go  to  or  from  their  work,  and  sometimes  he  brings  home 
from  such  a trip  a profit  of  a whole  franc,  which  is  quite  a con- 
siderable amount  for  him.  During  the  hours  when  the  papers 
do  not  sell,  he  offers  for  sale  “ le  nouveau  plan  de  Paris ,”  and  all 
other  possible  and  impossible  things.  When  the  lottery  has 
been  drawn,  his  golden  period  dawns.  For  a fortnight  he  cries 
out,  “ the  official  and  complete  list  of  the  drawn  numbers,”  and 
may  go  home  with  a five  franc  piece  in  his  pocket.  Ordinarily 
he  cannot  count  on  more  than  three  francs  at  the  utmost,  even 
if  he  is  fortunate  enough  to  be  used  as  a supernumerary  in  some 


io6  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

theatre,  where  they  play  sensational  pieces  and  pay  him  fifty 
centimes  an  evening.  But  in  times  of  a political  crisis,  or  when 
some  extraordinary  event  engrosses  the  public  attention,  the 
aspect  is  entirely  changed.  People  here  do  not  wait  for  their 
papers  to  be  brought  to  them.  People  have  to  go  themselves 
for  the  news  they  want,  and  they  do  it  on  such  occasions  with 
true  Parisian  eagerness.  They  dispute  each  other  the  privilege 
of  getting  the  papers  still  wet  from  the  press.  Even  the  work- 
man does  not  count  the  sous  he  spends  in  buying  one  paper 
after  another.  They  do  not  have  time  to  wait  till  the  papers  are 
in  the  kiosk,  but  crowd  around  the  large  printing  offices  in  order 
to  get  the  first  copies,  and,  if  the  anxiety  is  great,  the  price  paid 
for  a paper  is  comparatively  high  ; there  have  been  election 
days  when  there  was  given  a franc  and  more  for  an  ordinary  two 
sous  paper;  although  all  companies  had  been  cautious  enough  to 
print  ten  or  twenty  times  as  many  editions  as  usual.  They  can 
get  rid  of  every  one  of  them  ; no  man  retires  on  a day  like  this 
without  having  had  his  pockets  full  of  papers.  At  such  times  the 
newsmen’s  business  flourishes, — the  whole  army  takes  the  field  ; 
and  the  Rue  du  Croissant,  a small  street  between  the  Rue  Mont- 
martre and  Rue  du  Sentier,  becomes  literally  the  heart  that  gives 
out  and  receives  all  the  warm  blood  of  Parisian  life. 

The  greater  part  of  the  Parisian  papers  have  their  offices  and 
printing  houses  in  the  adjoining  part  of  the  Rue  Montmartre. 
Every  house  has,  from  the  basement  to  the  top  floor,  no  other 
tenants  than  papers  of  all  colors  and  shades  of  opinion  ; on  every 
story  is  at  least  a couple  of  them.  On  one  side  of  the  first 
floor  is  L' Intransigeant ; on  the  other,  the  ultra-reactionary 
Gazette  de  France ; on  the  second  floor,  the  organ  of  the  Oppor- 
tunists, Paris ; on  the  third,  the  Boulanger  drum,  Cocarde.  Day 
and  night  the  machine,  which  many  of  these  papers  keep  to- 
gether, is  in  full  blast ; when  one  comes  near  the  place  it  is  like 
witnessing  an  earthquake.  The  printer’s  ink  changes  the  gut- 
ter into  a little  black  river,  that  at  all  times  of  the  day  inundates 
the  street,  while  innumerable  loads  of  paper  are  rolled  inces- 
santly through  the  gates.  From  morning  till  night  the  news- 
men stand  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  waiting  to  be  used  for 
the  free  distributions  that  form  so  important  a part  in  the  adver- 
tisements. When  a paper  wants  to  create  a sensation  with  a 


THE  NEWSMEN. 


107 

new  feuilleton  novel,  they  print  the  first  chapter,  which  the 
author  has  received  orders  to  make  especially  interesting,  and 


' 


FIRST  EDITION  ! 

give  away  several  thousand  copies  of  it  on  the  street  corners. 
Business  firms  that  want  to  advertise  a new  invention  send  their 


xoS 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


little  pamphlets  all  over  town;  even  of  the  first  part  of  Boulan- 
ger’s book  about  the  Prussian  war  there  were  given  away  by 
the  general’s  friends,  two  and  a half  million  copies.  All  this 
makes  business  flourish  for  the  newsman ; if  he  is  clever,  he  can, 
in  twelve  hours,  have  distributed  2000  copies  and  have  earned  a 
five  franc  piece. 

The  Rue  du  Croissant  presents,  especially  at  about  three  and 
four  o’clock,  when  the  evening  papers  are  ready,  a true  Parisian 
spectacle.  When  anything  of  importance  has  taken  place,  these 
papers  go  like  hot  cakes  all  the  afternoon  and  evening.  There 
may  be  packed  3000  to  4000  people  in  the  Rue  du  Croissant,  but 
Paris  has  ten  times  as  many  newsmen  ready  to  meet  on  great 
occasions.  It  is  like  a sea  of  human  beings  ; they  try  to  elbow 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  gesticulating,  screaming,  and 
fighting.  It  bears  a striking  likeness  to  a rebellion.  In  the 
middle  of  the  street  the  men  that  sell  the  papers  wholesale 
have  their  stands,  and  it  is  toward  these  that  all  push  on,  under 
eager  discussions  of  which  papers  will  be  the  best  informed,  and 
consequently  sell  best.  They  are  sold  at  auction;  one  will  bid 
three,  another  four,  sometimes  even  four  and  a half,  francs  per 
hundred,  for  those  that  are  expected  to  meet  with  the  greatest 
success.  Everything  is,  of  course,  paid  in  cash,  and  the  paper 
bundle  is  thrown  over  the  heads  of  the  others  to  the  buyer;  and 
the  one  that  is  fortunate  enough  to  be  first  fights  his  way 
through  the  crowd  and  runs  toward  the  boulevards,  where  a few 
moments  later  the  thunder  of  his  cries  reaches  from  one  end  to 
the  other. 

Some  of  the  Boulanger  organs  think  it  practicable  to  keep  their 
own  canvassers  at  a salary  of  one  franc  and  a half  a day,  and 
a percentage  of  the  sale.  These  form  the  aristocracy  of  the 
trade,  and  took  the  part  of  guards  in  the  first  of  Boulanger’s  trois 
glorieuses  campaigns.  They  have  a uniform,  with  the  name  of 
their  paper  on  a ribbon  around  the  hat,  and  their  suit  covered 
with  the  tricolor  cocarde,  in  the  middle  of  which  is  a portrait  of 
the  valiant  captain  for  whose  glorification  they  have  proved 
themselves  able  to  use,  not  only  their  lungs,  but  also  their  fists, 
if  necessary. 

The  experiment  with  these  permanent  newsmen  seems  to 
have  given  the  best  results.  During  the  quiet  periods,  when  the 


log 


EVENING  PAPERS  ON  THE  BOULEVARD  IN  TIMES  OF  POLITICAL  EXCITEMENT. 


no 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


papers  do  not  need  the  whole  staff  in  Paris,  some  are  sent  into 
the  country,  by  the  party  they  represent,  to  work  for  the  coming 
election.  They  cry  “ Vivat " as  well  as  they  cry  their  papers, 
and  when  their  voices  have  prepared  the  way  for  the  great  election 
day,  they  are,  for  some  weeks,  of  untold  use  to  their  party  in 
pasting  placards  up  everywhere.  This  is  in  itself  a good  busi- 
ness now.  Election  follows  upon  election.  A few  weeks  before 

each  of  them  the 
whole  country  is  in- 
undated with  colored 
placards.  No  sooner 
have  t h e “ Cadet- 
tists  ” and  “ Oppor- 
tunists ” put  up  their 
proclamations,  than 
the  Boulanger  army 
follow  in  their  very 
track  and  put  theirs 
right  on  top  ; the  art 
is  at  such  times  to 
understand  when  to 
follow.  Politics  is,  on 
the  whole,  the  news- 
man’s gold-mine. 
When  the  deputies 
are  on  vacation  their 
profit  falls  from  four 
down  to  two  francs. 
A fire,  be  it  ever  so 
big,  is  of  no  effect, 
billposter;  election  time.  and  a murder  must  be 

double  or  threefold 

to  attract  attention  outside  of  the  quarter  where  it  is  committed, 
while  a political  scandal  at  once  raises  their  income  to  its  maxi- 
mum. There  has  been  no  lack  of  events  of  this  kind  of  late.  If 
there  have  been  little  uneventful  pauses  between,  “ les  canards  ” 
have  done  their  best  to  help  the  newsmen.  The  manufacturing 
of  “ canards  ” is  done  by  experts,  who  do  it  with  true  mastership. 
There  are  a few  firms  that  do  the  thing  wholesale,  and  often  have 


THE  NEWSMEN. 


ill 


been  on  the  point  of  failing,  but,  after  all,  they  know  well  the 
Paris  of  the  day  and  la  blague  that  has  made  them  millionaires. 
They  send  out  an  endless  number  of  “ extras,”  containing  made- 
up  sensational  news;  it  is  of  course  forbidden  to  put  false  news 
in  the  papers,  but  they  know  how  to  evade  this  interdiction. 
One  day  a murder  was  committed  in  Rochefort.  The  next  morn- 
ing all  the  newsmen  cried  all  over  Paris,  “ Demandez  I'assassinat 
de  Rochefort ,”  and  everybody  bought  the  paper,  fully  convinced 
that  it  was  Henri  Rochefort  who  had  been  murdered.  It  is 
decided  by  law  that  the  public  should  make  its  complaints  before 
the  authorities  take  any  steps.  The  policemen  have  in  this  case, 
as  in  many  others,  eyes  that  do  not  see,  arid  ears  that  do  not 
hear. 

One  day,  while  Rouvier  was  still  premier,  a curious  little  inci- 
dent took  place.  He  was  always  inclined  to  be  much  concerned 
about  what  happened  in  the  streets.  It  was  in  the  days  of  the 
decoration  scandal,  and  the  newsmen  were  crying  out  the  very 
worst  “ canards  ” when  he  was  driving  over  Place  du  Theatre 
Frangais.  By  the  fountain  on  the  square  stood  a circle  of  police- 
men, making  believe  that  they  heard  nothing  whatever.  In  his 
indignation  he  made  the  driver  stop,  and  leaning  out  of  the  win- 
dow ordered  them  to  arrest  the  newsmen  who  dared  to  call  out 
false  news.  The  policemen  approached  the  carriage  with  their 
usual  slow  dignity:  “What  do  you  want,  sir?”  they  asked. 
“Arrest  those  men,”  screamed  the  Premier  angrily.  “ Who  are 
you,  and  by  what  right  do  you  give  us  these  orders  ? ” they  asked, 
and  already  prepared  to  arrest,  under  pretext  of  street  disturb- 
ance, the  impudent  fellow  who  had  interrupted  their  idleness, 
when  the  answer  came,  “ I am  the  Premier,  and  my  name  is 
Rouvier!  ” Then  they  grew,  of  course,  as  active  and  interested 
as  anybody  could  wish  ; but  the  men  had  already  felt  the  dan- 
ger and  were  far  away ; and  the  result  is  usually  the  same  when- 
ever anybody,  offended  by  their  cries,  tries  to  make  the  police 
interfere.  In  this  way  the  thirty-five  thousand  men  manage 
to  keep  in  activity  ; since  the  Boulanger  star  has  risen  they  meet 
in  full  number  every  morning,  and  they  seldom  fail  to  find 
employment.  It  is  not  much  else  but  screaming  “ Vive  le 
general  /”  and  giving  him  a guard  from  whom  he  may,  in  times 
of  need,  expect  a more  serious  service  than  the  one  of  making  a 


its 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


noise  in  the  Rue  du  Croissant.  Their  only  grievance,  in  this 
golden  age  that  has  dawned  for  them,  is  that  so  many  intruders 
are  tempted  to  take  up  the  business.  They  have  in  their  train 
not  only  representatives  of  many  different  professions,  but  also 
the  detectives,  who  earn  forty  sous  to  stand  by  and  listen  to  their 
talk.  This  is,  of  course,  less  agreeable,  but  quite  characteristic 
of  their  social  position.  The  Parisian  newsmen  have  indeed 
become  an  army  that  will  assert  itself  more  and  more. 


XI. 

Parisian  Peddlers. 


W: 


'HEN  the  Pa- 
risian street, 
under  the  gray,  frosty 
sky,  gets  to  be  only 
a thoroughfare  that 
people  want  to  travel 
over  as  quickly  as 
possible,  the  outward 
appearance  of  this 
city  is  like  that  of  all 
others ; nothing  but 
a crowd  of  houses. 
And  when  the  blood 
freezes  in  these 
street  veins,  when 
the  traffic  ceases,  it 
means  for  the  human 
sparrows  the  same 
as  it  does  for  their 
feathered  colleagues 
when  the  white  snow 
covers  the  field 
where  they  pick  up 
their  crumbs.  They 
die  of  starvation  if  they  do  not  first  die  of  cold.  But  as 
long  as  the  boulevard  and  avenues  are  true  to  themselves, 
the  peddler  lives  there  like  the  sparrows.  He  neither  sows 
nor  reaps,  and  yet  the  Paris  streets  feed  him.  He  can  live 
by  whatever  it  offers  him ; if  the  fare  be  ever  so  poor,  there 
is  still  a spice  that  seasons  it — open  air  and  liberty.  This 
is  what  attracted  him  and  made  him  enlist  in  the  ranks.  One 


THE  CHESTNUT  ROASTER. 


”3 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


114 

day,  when  he  had  no  work  or  did  not  want  to  take  what  he 
could  get,  he  walked  down  the  street,  as  one  does  in  Paris, 
with  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  stopped  at  a corner,  where 
“ le postigateur  ” had  spread  his  cover  on  the  asphalt,  and  crowds 
had  gathered  around  his  wares  to  listen  to  his  flow  of  language, 
and  there  he  awakened  to  his  calling.  He  saw  through  the 
secrets  of  the  art  and  felt  that  he,  too,  was  an  artist.  The  best 
of  all  is  that  no  capital  is  necessary  to  start  with  ; the  peddler 
only  communicates  with  some  small  suburban  manufactory  that 
makes  the  well-known  “ articles  de  Paris  ” for  the  shops.  To 
advertise  their  last  invention  they  put  a dozen  pieces  at  the  ped- 
dler’s disposal;  he  then  goes  out  in  the  street  and  seeks  a place 
where  there  are  plenty  of  pedestrians  who  are  not  very  busy, 
and  not  too  many  policemen  to  be  seen.  Such  places  are  rather 
abundant  in  Paris,  and  there  he  makes  his  preparations.  He 
spreads  a piece  of  oil-cloth  or  sackcloth  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
a circle  of  curious  people  stop  to  see  what  this  is  going  to  be  ; 
there  is  no  place  where  people  stop  as  easily  and  for  everything 
and  nothing  as  they  do  in  Paris.  Then  he  commences  some 
trick  or  other  that  is  very  easily  done  and  has  the  practical  result 
of  bringing  him  a few  sous  from  the  generous  passers-by,  and  at  the 
same  time  attracts  some  more  people.  When  a sufficient  num- 
ber has  gathered  he  shows  his  true  face.  He  has  a small  article 
to  sell,  which  has  received  a prize  at  all  possible  exhibitions,  and 
that  everywhere  else  costs  twenty-five  francs,  but  to  advertise  it 
and  attract  the  attention  of  the  public,  he  has  been  commissioned 
to  sell  it  for  a price  at  which  it  is  really  “ given  away.”  Even  if 
the  inventor  sold  it  himself,  and  lived  in  a garret  on  dry  bread 
and  water,  he  would  never  be  able  to  sell  it  as  cheaply  as  the 
peddler.  He  has  only  a few  left;  those  who  want  them  must 
have  the  money  ready,  for  they  know  that  as  soon  as  the  police- 
man comes  he  will  have  to  take  himself  off  with  the  utmost 
speed.  Even  this  last  remark  is  a finesse ; the  peddler  seldom 
commences  business  without  having  full  permission  from  the 
police  prefecture,  the  more  so  as  he  receives  this  permit  without 
great  difficulty.  He  knows  that  the  forbidden  fruit  is  a strong 
bait ; Parisians  are  as  credulous  as  they  are  curious  ; they  believe 
everything,  buy  his  watch-chains,  his  scouring  soaps,  his  powder 
to  plate  with,  his  potato  peelers,  his  walking  turtles  and  dancing 


PARISIAN  PEDDLERS.  ”S 

dolls,  all  of  which  the  peddler  offers  for  sale  at  every  step  you 
take.  Deceived  by  his  volubility,  you  really  believe  for  the 
moment  that  you  have  made  a great  bargain,  while  the  things 


A TRICK  OR  TWO  TO  ATTRACT  ATTENTION. 


are  perfectly  worthless — though  he  often  earns  one  hundred  per 
cent.  The  streets  are  a permanent  fair  for  cheap  toys.  There  is, 
for  instance,  the  mechanical  rabbit,  a fabulous  little  fur  creature, 


1 1 6 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


that,  by  a carrot  in  its  mouth  and  a pair  of  glistening,  immovable 
eyes,  with  an  astonished  stare,  betrays  to  which  genus  of  animals 
it  is  intended  to  belong,  but  which  rolls  about  on  four  magnifi- 
cent mahogany  wheels,  thereby  moving  an  axle,  the  turns  of  which 
make  the  animal’s  paws  pound  away  with  feverish  haste  on  two 
metal  bells,  producing  a noise  over  which  children  go  into  rap- 
tures of  delight.  The  whole  machine  is  sold  for  thirteen  sous, 
and  yet  it  pays  well,  for  all  the  material  used  consists  of  refuse. 
The  magnificent  mahogany  wheels  are  from  the  caster  manufac- 
tories, and  are  the  pieces  cut  out  of  the  places  where  the  vinegar 
and  oil  bottles  are  to  fit  in ; the  axles  are  pieces  of  umbrella  frames 
that  have  been  thrown  away  because  they  were  not  perfectly 
straight ; the  fur  is  made  of  remnants  from  the  furriers’,  and  the 
eyes,  old  nails  covered  with  red  varnish.  To  be  a nail  varnisher 
for  the  mechanical  rabbit  manufacturers  is  one  of  the  small  pro- 
fessions, the  existence  of  which  the  profane  crowds  do  not  dream 
of.  In  the  course  of  a year  about  80,000  of  these  rabbits  are  sold 
in  the  streets.  The  peddler  has  them  for  four  francs  fifty  per 
hundred,  and,  if  he  sells  only  a dozen  a day,  both  he  and  the 
manufacturer  can  live  by  it. 

Day  by  day  this  great  teacher,  Necessity,  teaches  the  Parisians 
to  make  use  of  new  refuse,  and  day  by  day  new  articles  of  the 
same  kind  as  the  mechanical  rabbit  make  their  appearance.  Be- 
fore the  war  the  old  sardine  boxes  were  filled  with  earth  and  used 
to  build  huts  for  the  ragpickers;  now,  two  hundred  workmen  are 
buying  them  the  year  round,  making  tin  soldiers  and  toy  locomo- 
tives of  them.  This  makes  it  possible  for  Parisian  industry  to 
meet  the  Niirnberg  competition,  and  the  low  prices  enable  a 
whole  army  of  workmen  to  live  by  selling  these  home-made  toys. 
The  peddler  knows  how  to  get  himself  an  article  even  cheaper ; he 
goes  out  among  the  ragpickers  and  gets  from  their  baskets  the 
pheasant  heads  taken  out  from  the  ash  barrels,  pays  three  sous  a 
head,  cleans  them,  dresses  them,  and  sells  them  for  one  franc 
fifty  sous  apiece  to  the  charcutier,  who  puts  them  as  an  ornament 
on  the  bird  patties  in  the  show-window.  The  trade  in  second- 
hand clothes  is  almost  exclusively  a street  business  in  Paris,  and 
comes  under  the  peddler’s  domain.  The  cries  of  “ marchayid 
d’ habits"  are  heard  early  in  the  morning  in  almost  all  quarters 
of  the  city.  He  is  not  a good  payer,  and  it  is  only  after  a long 


PARISIAN  PEDDLERS. 


117 

parley  that  one  succeeds  in  getting  a few  sous  out  of  him  ; but 
he  is  always  there  just  at  the  moment  when  the  laborer  in  the 
suburbs,  or  the  student  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  awakes  with  the 
sad  prospect  of  having  nothing  to  eat  that  day.  The  young 
student  then  shows  him  the  bundle  he  has  been  obliged  to  make. 
What  is  the  price  ? asks  Father  Solomon.  If  fifty  francs  is  asked, 
he  offers  five  without  a blush,  and  it  is  of  no  use  for  the  student 
to  show  him  that  the  trousers  are  almost  new,  and  how  many 
excellent  caps  he  can  make  out  of  the  coat ; he  sticks  to  his  offer 
and  will  sooner  go  away  than  add  a sou,  for  he  is  fully  aware 
that  before  he  is  half-way  down- 
stairs he  will  be  called  back  and 
get  the  things  at  his  own  price. 

If  he  makes  a disgracefully  low 
offer  to  the  poor  wretches  who 
need  the  money,  he  has  at  least 
the  excuse  that  the  wholesale  mer- 
chant to  whom  he  has  to  sell  them, 
because  he  himself  lacks  capital, 
never  squanders  away  his  money. 

If  in  a day’s  wanderings  up  and 
down  stairs  he  spends  twenty 
francs — the  average  of  his  trans- 
actions— he  can  at  the  utmost 
take  in  thirty.  The  whole  con- 
cern goes  to  the  Temple,  where  the  laborers  come  on  Sunday  to 
pick  out  what  is  yet  tolerably  good  ; the  remains  are  sold  at 
auction  to  salesmen,  who  export  it  to  the  “ colonies,”  by  which 
is  meant  foreign  parts  in  general,  and  who  sometimes  take  them 
to  poor  provinces  in  France,  or  to  other  peddlers,  who  walk  about 
at  the  suburban  fairs  and  near  the  Barriferes.  These  last  are  the 
Pariahs  of  the  profession,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they  often 
sell  things  at  a great  bargain.  At  the  least  fashionable  gates  the 
poor  man  can  buy  a waistcoat  for  one  franc,  and  a coat  for,  at 
the  utmost,  three  francs.  In  this  way  the  poor  of  Paris  live  by 
the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  tables  of  the  rich. 

Besides  these  things,  the  Parisian  peddler  carries  on  an  exten- 
sive business  in  food  for  man  and  beast.  The  potentate  in  this 
branch  is  the  chestnut-man.  When  the  first  cold  comes  in  Octo- 


THE  STUDENT  AND  THE  “ MARCHAND 

d’habits.” 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


118 

ber  he  lights  his  stove  outside  of  the  cafe,  and  all  through  the 
six  winter  months  he  stands  there  roasting  the  brown  nuts  over 
the  sparkling  coal  fire.  The  laborer  can,  however  early  he  may 
go  to  his  work,  get  his  breakfast  there  for  two  sous,  and  the  latest 
night-bird  may  take  his  supper  there  for  the  same  price.  There 

are  in  the  city  about  one  thousand 
chestnut  merchants,  all  of  whom  do 
a good  business.  They  buy  their 
chestnuts  by  the  bag  from  the  fruit 
agents  in  the  Halles,  and  earn  about 
fifty  per  cent,  by  selling  them  in 
small  quantities.  They  are,  of 
course,  obliged  to  pay  for  occupying 
the  place  where  they  are  allowed  to 
put  their  stove,  and  for  the  coal  and 
materials,  but  the  profit  is  neverthe- 
less sufficient  for  them.  A chestnut 
seller,  who  has  a good  stand  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  sells  his  two-sous 
bags  so  quickly  that  he  makes  a 
profit  of  about  ten  francs  a day. 
Roasted  chestnuts  is  the  national 
dish  of  the  Parisian,  just  as  maca- 
roni is  that  of  the  Italians.  Like 
the  rag  and  cigar  pickers  the  chestnut  man  is  one  of  those  street 
types  that  legend  loves  to  put  in  a frame  of  romance. 

There  was  once  upon  a time,  it  is  said,  a marquis  very 
rich,  very  fashionable,  and  very  eccentric.  He  entertained  a 
violent  passion  for  an  exceedingly  beautiful  lady,  Rosa  Lyons, 
who  later  left  herself  a name  in  the  annals  of  Parisian  gallantry. 
When  she  showed  herself  deaf  to  all  his  entreaties,  the  idea 
occurred  to  him  to  hire  a chestnut-stand  at  her  door,  to  dress  in 
peddler’s  costume,  and  stand  there  in  order  to  see  her  every  day. 
Through  a whole  week,  he  stood  on  guard  in  this  way,  and  it  so 
touched  the  young  lady’s  heart  that  she  ended  by  showing  her- 
self less  cruel.  The  Marquis  then  eloped  with  her  and  took  her 
to  Germany,  where  they  lived  in  great  style  and  spent  their 
money  in  the  most  luxurious  way.  And  three  years  after  the 
marquis  was  ruined,  and  Rosa  Lyons  had  left  him.  He  began  to 


THE  “ CAST  CLOTHES  ” MAN  AT 
THE  BARRliRES. 


PARISIAN  PEDDLERS. 


ng 


gamble,  and  was  successful  at  first,  but  lost  little  by  little  his 
good  luck,  and  was  finally  reduced  to  absolute  poverty.  His 
hair  had  grown  gray  under  his  misfortunes,  when  one  evening  he 
accidentally  passed  the  door  in  the  Rue  de  Provence  where  he  had 
spent  the  week  that  had  proved  so  fatal.  It  once  more  occurred 
to  him  to  hire  the  chestnut-stove  for  the  few  sous  he  had  left,  and 
take  his  stand  there.  The  white-haired  old  man  standing  there 
to-day  is  said  to  be  the  ex-marquis. 

It  has  been  asserted — and  it  is  quite  possible — that  this 
romance  has  its  counterparts ; but,  all  in  all,  the  chestnut-man 
leads  a less  romantic  existence  than  the  rest  of  the  street-mer- 
chants. He  generally  has  a firm  footing  and  has  a stand  which 
gives  him  a certain  secure  bourgeois  feeling.  It  is  only  during 
the  six  summer  months  that  he  is  reduced  to  vagrancy,  but 
many  of  his  fellow-tradesmen  go  to  Auvergne,  where  they 
originally  came  from,  and  take  up  their  former  occupation  of 
charcoal-burning:  The  great  army  of  Parisian  peddlers,  always 
on  the  move,  is  formed  of  those  that  are  called  Les  marchands  des 
quatre  saisons,  because  they  sell  the  products  of  the  seasons, 
alternately  fruits,  vegetables,  fish,  eggs,  etc.  They  are  licensed 
to  carry  on  this  market-trade  on  the  condition  that  they  do  not 
stop  on  their  way  except 
when  stopped  by  passers- 
by  who  want  to  purchase, 
and  that  they  do  not  go 
outside  of  their  daily  route, 
which  they  have  come  to 
an  agreement  about  with 
the  police.  They  draw 
attention  to  themselves 
and  their  articles  by  cries, 
the  loudness  of  which  no- 
body thinks  of  interfer- 
ing with.  The  nature  of 
these  cries  makes  them 

A LA  BARQUE ! 

comprehensible  to  Paris- 
ians, while  to  foreigners  they  sound  like  the  unfathomable  voice  of 
the  Sphinx.  “A  la  barque  ! ” means  that  they  have  oysters  to  sell, 
“ A la  coque  ! ” that  they  are  offering  you  eggs.  The  fisherwoman 


120  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

who  carries  in  her  basket  the  small  Seine-fish  eaten  in  Paris  under 
the  name  of  6perlans,  announces  “ La  violette,  la  violette  ! ” and 
mussels  are  introduced  with  the  cry,  “ Au  gros  cayeux,"  which, 

in  the  mouth  of  the  less 
etymologically  learned  ped- 
dlers becomes  “ Au  gros 
caillou."  The  aristocratic 
member  of  Les  marchands 
des  qaatre  saisons  pushes  a 
little  cart,  most  frequently 
borrowed  at  the  same  place 
where  the  peddler  borrows 
the  twenty  francs  that  he 
needs  to  make  his  purchase 
in  the  halles,  on  the  condi- 
tion that  he  pays  back 
twenty-two  in  the  evening 
when  his  business  is  done. 
There  are  every  day  on  an  average  six  thousand  of  them  in  the 
streets  ; the  police  keep  an  exact  account  of  the  number.  It  is, 
however,  impossible  to  give  anything  like  the  exact  number  of 
their  modest  colleagues  for  whom  the  wheelbarrow  is  an  unat- 
tainable luxury,  and  who  consider  themselves  happy  when  they 
can  sell  what  they  carry  in  their  baskets  or  in  the  primitive 
wooden  sieve  on  their  backs,  which  is  the  way  the  bird-seed  and 
cress  merchants  carry  their  wares. 

The  boulevard  sidewalk  outside  of  the  caftfs  is,  and  always 
will  be,  the  peddler’s  best  market.  He  sells  there  everything 
imaginable,  from  trained  birds  to  faded  flower-bunches  or  sea- 
soned meerschaum  pipes,  and  the  regularity  with  which  he  walks 
the  same  route,  year  in  year  out,  with  the  same  things,  is  the 
best  proof  that  he  always  finds  customers  there  for  them.  The 
cafe  guest  with  the  soft  head  and  the  Louis  d' or  in  his  pocket  is 
touched  at  the  sight  of  this  poor  fellow,  who  is  forced  to  sell  his 
articles  in  the  streets  to  make  a living;  he  buys  out  of  pity,  and 
even  if  he  may  be  taken  in  to  some  degree,  there  is  no  need  of 
regretting  the  bargain. 

The  buyer  of  the  tame  birds  is  frequently  cheated.  It  is  not 
of  their  free  will  that  these  poor  creatures  sit  so  quietly  and 


PARISIAN'  PEDDLERS. 


121 

patiently  on  the  peddler’s  hand.  Their  wings  have  first  been  cut 
on  the  inside,  but  so  cleverly  that  their  brilliant  green  plumage 
bears  no  mark  of  it,  and  then  they  are  starved  so  that  they  can 
hardly  move.  If,  in  spite  of  this,  they  should  show  a tendency 
to  obstinacy,  the  peddler  completes  the  training  by  slapping 
them  over  the  legs  with  a stick,  or  when  unobserved  he  makes 
the  poor,  tired  bird  spring  incessantly  from  one  finger  to  the 
other,  without  giving  it  a moment’s  rest. 

Sometimes  the  cafe  guest,  who  looks  at  the  bird  offered  him, 
is  most  astonished  to  discover  that  on  one  wing  there  are  a 
number  of  white  feathers  grown  so  that  they  form  the  initials  of 
his  name  or  the  crown  over  his  coat-of-arms ; and  in  his  simple 
ignorance  of  what  a sorcerer  the  peddler  is  where  his  business  is 
concerned,  he  hastens  to  close  -the  sale.  The  phenomenon  is 
brought  about  in  a very  natural  way  by  means  of  a potato,  in 
which  the  desired  design  is  cut.  The  potato 
water  until  it  is  very  hot,  when  the  mark  is 
pressed  on  the  bird’s  wing.  The  burned  feath- 
ers fall  off,  and  when  the  new  ones  come  out 
they  are  white,  or  at  least  of  a much  lighter 
shade  than  the  others.  Many  of  the  boule- 
vard peddler’s  most  seductive  articles  are  of  a 
no  more  genuine  quality  than  this.  When 
he  can  sell  his  incomparably  seasoned  meer- 
shaum  pipes  so  cheaply,  it  is  simply  because 
the  meerschaum  is  replaced  by  a material 
made  of  egg-shells,  because  the  amber  mouth- 
piece is  made  of  resin,  and  the  seasoning  is 
obtained,  not  by  tobacco  smoke,  but  by  ex- 
posing the  pipe  to  a dense  smoke  of  burn- 
ing straw.  And  when  he  can  put  an  appar- 
ently faultless  and  good  watch  at  the  cafe 
guest’s  disposal  for  ten  or  twelve  francs,  it  by 
no  means  finds  its  explanation  in  the  touch- 
ing story  he  tells  about  a sick  wife  and  chil- 
dren that  have  nothing  to  eat,  about  a friend  that  was  to 
bring  money,  but  has  not  come,  which  forces  him  to  take  the 
last  step  and  sell  his  father’s  watch.  It  is  too  late  to  bring 
it  to  the  pawnbroker’s,  he  says;  he  will  leave  it  for  almost 


is  kept  in  boiling 


THE  CHICKWEED  MAN. 


122 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


nothing  to  the  one  who  will  promise  him  that  he  may  buy 
it  back  again  at  double  the  price,  when  he  is  able  to  do  so. 
The  truth  is  that  he  does  a good  business  if  he  can  sell  it  for 
ten  francs;  it  is  cheap  trumpery  made  expressly  for  the  peddlers 
and  intended  to  look  well  only  for  the  time  the  bargain  is  being 
made.  All  depends  upon  understanding  “ le  boniment ,”  the  trick 
that  produces  an  effect  and  procures  him  a customer.  The 
Parisian  peddler  understands  thoroughly  the  secret  of  this,  and 
as  long  as  the  pulse  of  Parisian  street  life  beats  normally,  he 

suffers  no  want.  But  when  the 
cafe  tables  are  taken  in,  when  the 
cold  is  greater  than  curiosity,  and 
no  sauntering  idlers  are  to  be  seen, 
then  the  bad  days  commence  for 
this  poor  wretch.  Even  then  he 
often  finds  means  to  brave  fate. 
One  goes  to  the  lakes  in  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne,  and  earns  the  few 
sous  he  needs  to  keep  up  life  by 
doing  all  sorts  of  little  things 
for  the  fair  skaters.  He  mends 
broken  straps,  pushes  the  sleighs, 
and  helps  the  awkward  who  have 
fallen  to  get  upon  their  feet  again, 
etc.  Another  goes  to  the  work- 
shops and  sells  small  numbers  for 
the  drawing  of  the  great  prize. 
He  has  privately  got  hold  of  some  goose  or  turkey,  or  in  an 
emergency  even  shot  a rabbit  in  the  banlieue,  and  he  ar- 
arranges  a lottery  for  this  prize ; the  number  costs  ten  cen- 
times ; the  laborer  is  tempted  by  the  prospect  of  being  able 
to  bring  such  a treasure  home  with  him,  and  before  evening 
the  peddler  may  have  sold  one  hundred  or  two  hundred  num- 
bers. The  lottery  is  drawn  in  the  workshop,  everybody  sees 
that  it  is  fairly  done,  and  is  therefore  ready  to  begin  over  again 
the  next  day.  The  harder  the  cold  and  the  fight  for  life,  the 
greater  the  peddler’s  talent  for  inventing  all  sorts  of  means  to 
sustain  life.  His  golden  days  are  when  the  sun  falls  in  among 
the  leaves  of  the  boulevard  trees,  when  everything  takes  pleasure 


PARISIAN  PEDDLERS. 


**3 


in  living,  when  people  meet  there  to  fill  their  lungs  with  this 
atmosphere,  full  of  life  and  joy.  Then  there  is  under  the  Paris- 
ian sky  no  “human  sparrow”  that  is  not  able  to  pick  up  his 
crumbs  from  this  large  table. 


XII. 


The  Green  Regiment. 


THE  first  Parisian  character  with 
whom  the  foreigner  gets  ac- 
quainted on  entering  the  city  is  the 
octroi  officer.  He  stands  at  the  de- 
pots and  the  city  gates  in  his  green 
coat  with  the  silver  buttons,  and 
stretches  out  his  Cerberus  arm  and 
does  not  allow  further  advance  until 
he  is  very  sure  that  you  do  not  carry 
any  eatables  or  drinkables.  He 
stands  there  as  a living  symbol  of 
Parisian  Conservatism.  There  is  al- 
ways enough  of  it  at  the  holy  hearth 
of  revolution  to  make  it  worthy  of 
such  a representative.  The  “ green 
men  ” are  expected  to  stop  every 
individual  whom  they  suspect  of 
hiding  smuggled  goods  on  his  per- 
son, to  put  their  nose  into  every 
trunk,  basket,  or  package,  and  even 
to  demand  that  one  shall  descend 
from  his  carriage  that  he  may  be  sub- 
mitted to  a detailed  search.  In  former  and  less  democratic  times, 
private  carriages  were  exempt  from  this  rule,  but  v/hen  the  Repub- 
lic came  into  power  it  was  found  that  this  gave  rise  to  imposition. 
Even  if  the  owners  were  conscientious,  the  servants  would  make 
no  scruple  of  filling  the  carriage  with  smuggled  goods.  To  be 
sure,  it  was  forbidden  to  search  these  carriages,  but  the  officers 
were  at  the  same  time  told  to  interfere  if  they  were  certain  of 
smuggling  intentions.  In  these  cases  they  generally  lay  in  wait, 
and  when  the  carriage  came  they  sprang  forth,  seizing  the  horses 

134 


THE  GREEN  REGIMENT. 


I25 


by  their  bridles  and  stopping  them  in  spite  of  the  lashing  that 
the  coachman  never  failed  to  treat  them  to.  It  even  sometimes 
happened  that  they  were  overthrown  and  that  the  carriage  rolled 


AT  THE  BARRlfiRE. 


over  them.  To  put  an  end  to  such  conflicts,  it  was  at  last  ordered 
that  every  conveyance,  of  whatever  kind  it  might  be,  should  be 
searched  at  the  barriere.  If  the  “ green  man  ” is  good-natured 
and  there  is  no  especial  occasion  for  suspicion,  he  confines  him- 
self to  stopping  the  carriage  a few  seconds,  while  he  takes  a quick 
survey  of  its  contents  and  then  allows  it  to  continue  on  its  way 
without  disturbing  the  passengers  further.  If  he  is  at  all  spiteful 
he  is  quite  capable  of  making  a great  to-do  over  nothing.  Even 
the  smallest  quantity  of  dutiable  goods  cannot  be  taken  into  the 
city  without  payment,  and  when,  for  instance,  you  return  from  a 
picnic  with  a bottle  of  wine  or  a chicken  in  the  basket,  you  have 
to  pay  your  sous  before  you  can  bring  these  remains  home. 
Every  young  partridge  that  the  successful  hunter  has  slain,  every 
poor  rabbit  that  the  country  woman  carries  to  market,  only  enters 
Paris  after  having  paid  for  the  privilege  in  ready  money.  If  you 
do  not  announce  that  you  carry  such  things  with  you,  it  is  looked 
upon  as  an  attempt  to  cheat  the  State. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that  such  hindrances  are  anything 
but  agreeable  to  the  public,  and  if  the  “ green  regiment’s  ” busi- 
ness only  consisted  in  searching  people’s  baggage,  to  get  a few 


is6 


PARIS  OF  TO- DA  Y. 


sous  out  of  them  for  the  octroi  fund,  its  days  would  soon  be 
numbered,  however  much  the  Paris  administration  might  feel 
inclined  to  adhere  to  old  traditions.  But  behind  this  little  irri- 
tating octroi  activity,  which  everybody  sees  and  feels  the  burden 
of,  there  is  another  and  greater,  less  noticed,  but  which  neverthe- 
less, to  a certain  degree,  becomes  the  very  “ nervus  rerum  ” of 
the  city  life.  Paris  is  no  Croesus,  whose  treasury  teems  with 
accumulated  gold  heaps.  It  lives  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  what 
it  needs,  to  watch  over  the  health  and  security  of  its  inhabitants, 
it  collects  in  centimes  from  each  of  them.  Its  revenues  are 
varied,  but  of  all  the  sources  of  municipal  wealth,  none  is  as  lib- 
eral in  its  supply  as  the  octroi.  It  is  always  the  one  to  procure 

the  means  when 
public  charity  tries 
to  alleviate  the 
wants  of  the  poor, 
or  when  there  is 
money  needed  for 
public  instruction, 
or  else  when  some 
great  work  of  pub- 
lic utility  has  to  be 
done.  It  i£  able 
to  do  this,  for  it 
not  only  taxes  the 
Sunday  hunter’s 
partridge  and  the 
country  woman’s 
rabbit,  but  all  the 
daily  necessities  of 
life  that  pass  into 
the  immense  city. 
Like  the  private 
and  the  hired  car- 
riages, the  provis- 
ion wagons  have 
to  stop  before  the  gates,  and  where  they  are  concerned  the  “ green 
man  ” is  not  satisfied  with  an  inspection  of  a minute  or  two. 
For  all  the  fruit  it  contains,  excise  must  be  paid,  and,  before  the 


MADAME  AND  HER  RABBIT. 


THE  GREEN  REGIMENT. 


127 


year  is  over,  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  millions  have 
gone  into  the  city  treasury  in  this  way. 

Paris  has  a good  appetite,  and  consumes  within  a year  three 
hundred  thousand  oxen,  two  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
calves,  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  swine,  and  one  million 
eight  hundred  thousand  sheep ; altogether,  over  three  hundred 
and  fifty  millions  pounds  of  meat.  To  get  this  from  the  butcheries 
the  seller  must  pay  about  twenty  millions  to  the  octroi,  and  the 
taxes  on  all  other  provisions  correspond  to  this.  Wine  and  liq- 
uor, however,  remain  still  the  main  feature,  and  are  the  source 
of  more  than  fifty  millions  of  the  octroi  revenue.  Before  one 
can  get  a hogshead  of  ordinary  table  wine  into  his  cellar,  there 
has  to  be  paid  almost  fifty  francs  to  the  octroi;  and,  in  order  to 
pass  the  barriere , a hectoliter  of  alcohol,  which  costs  at  the 
factory  between  eighty  and  eighty-five  francs,  is  taxed  to  the 
amount  of  three  hundred  and  twenty-eight, — four  times  its  value. 
In  cases  where  the  “ green  man  ” has  orders  to  proceed  so  severely, 
it  is  only  human  that  barkeepers  and  other  brave  citizens  some- 
times try  to  operate  a little  behind  his  back,  and  Parisians  show, 
in  the  cleverness  of  these  operations,  the  highest  ingenuity. 
They  may  not  do  it  in  the  romantic  way  of  the  smugglers  from 
the  other  side  of  the  Pyrenees,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  very  well 
done. 

In  a corner  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  into  which  ordinary  guests 
seldom  stray,  is  a hall  where  one  might  find  surprising  proofs  of 
the  inventive  powers  displayed  to  fool  the  octroi.  There  is 
here  a sort  of  museum  containing  all  the  objects  used  to  pro- 
mote smuggling.  Under  a layer  of  much  respected  dust  lies  a 
collection  of  oil-cans,  firewood,  horse  collars,  carriage  bodies, 
rubber  corsets,  bustles,  and  other  peculiar  objects.  The  oil-cans 
are  double,  the  wood  hollow,  the  collars,  corsets,  and  bustles  are 
the  discreet  receptacles  of  different  liquors.  A whole  army  of 
poor  wretches  have  no  other  profession  than  passing  the  octroi 
barriere , wearing  these  things.  They  can  in  this  way  smuggle 
three  or  four  liters  at  a time,  and  without  great  difficulty  earn 
about  ten  francs  a day.  Sometimes,  however,  a leakage  may 
occur,  and  when  the  smuggler  does  not  light  his  pipe  cautiously 
he  may  run  the  risk  of  being  blown  up  and  roasted  alive.  The 
high  hat  is  also  much  used  as  a smuggling  instrument.  Behind 


128 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  Y. 


the  shining  silk  is  a tin  receptacle  filled  with  alcohol.  Some- 
times the  octroi  has  to  stop  a carriage  with  carpeting,  and  find 
that  the  carpet-rolls  contain  hidden  zinc  cylinders  ; sometimes 
piles  of  dishes  or  rolls  of  paper  are  made  use  of.  There  is  on 
sea  or  land  nothing  that  the  smugglers  do  not  understand  how 
to  make  use  of  in  their  trade.  One  of  their  most  original 
achievements  is  the  following:  The  octroi  officers  had  for  some 
time  noticed  an  elegant  bridal  carriage,  with  two  beautiful 
white  steeds,  passing  now  the  Porte  Maillot,  now  the  Porte  Saint 
Ouen,  coming  one  day  from  Grenelle,  the  next  from  Clichy. 
Inside  sat  a gentleman  in  dress  suit,  with  white  necktie,  white 
gloves,  carefully  dressed,  and  paying  great  attention  to  a young 
and  beautiful  lady,  in  white  muslin,  with  a wreath  of  orange  blos- 
soms in  her  hair.  The  horses  had  the  usual  white  bridal  cocarde 
over  the  ears,  and  on  the  box  sat  the  stylish  coachman  holding 
his  whip  decorated  with  ribbons.  For  some  months  this  bridal 
drive  went  on  without  any  hindrances,  but  Paris  does  not  have 
more  than  a certain  number  of  gates,  and,  after  the  couple  had 
passed  them  all,  the  time  came  when  it  had  to  present  itself  the 
second  and  third  time  before  the  octroi  officer’s  inquisitorial 
eyes.  He  began  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  the  same  couple  was 
married  so  many  times.  Detectives  were  put  on  their  track  and 
it  was  found  out  that  the  couple  was  neither  on  the  way  to  the 
maire,  nor  to  the  priest,  but  simply  on  a smuggling  expedition. 
The  beautiful  upholstered  seats  were  of  rubber,  and  held  a 
receptacle  filled  with  alcohol.  To  cheat  the  octroi  has  become 
almost  a passion  with  many  Parisians;  they  want  revenge  for  the 
trouble  of  not  being  able  to  pass  through  a gate,  with  a few 
gifts  for  a Christmas  tree,  without  having  the  “ green  regiment  ” 
examine  most  carefully  the  mechanical  rabbit,  to  see  if  it  could 
not,  perhaps,  be  eaten  after  all.  It  is  very  seldom  that  the  fair 
sex  does  not  consider  it  a most  praiseworthy  action  to  smuggle 
the  greatest  amount  of  eatables  through  the  gates.  No  day 
passes  where  there  are  not  some  women  arrested  who  have 
replaced  their  bustle  with  a duck,  a small  rabbit,  or  a pair  of 
partridges,  and,  to  discover  this  kind  of  smuggling,  an  acuteness, 
only  acquired  by  long  practice,  is  necessary.  The  officers  are  not 
allowed  to  lay  hands  on  anybody  or  anything  till  they  are  very 
sure  of  their  right  to  do  so.  They  look  at  the  travelers  in  the 


THE  GREEN  REGIMENT. 


129 


d6p6ts  and  the  passers-by  at  the  gate,  but  it  is  only  when  there 
is  no  longer  any  doubt  left  as  to  the  person’s  smuggling  inten- 
tions that  they  dare  to  stop  him  and  have  him  examined. 


A lady  who  was  suspected  of  smuggling  was  one  day  re- 


EVEN  THE  CLOCK-WORK.  RABBIT  FOR  b£b£  ! 


quested  by  the  officer  to  walk  into  the  room  kept  for  this  pur- 
pose at  the  French  depots.  He  left  her,  after  having  told  her  to 
unload  the  different  smuggled  goods  that  she  carried.  When  he 
came  back  the  table  was  loaded  down  with  an  assortment  of 
Lyon  sausages,  a pdtd  de  foie  gras,  two  hams,  and  a goose.  Aside 
from  the  “ green  regiment  ” in  uniform,  the  octroi  includes  a 
number  of  private  detectives,  a corps  d'dlite,  which,  with  equal 
tact,  discretion,  and  untiring  vigilance,  follow  up  the  people 
under  suspicion,  watch  by  the  catacombs,  and  keep  an  eye  on  all 
the  roads  by  which  goods  might  possibly  be  carried  in  without 
passing  the  gates.  They  are  well  acquainted  with  all  the  moat 


130 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


secret  corners  of  Paris,  know  all  the  haunts  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  are,  with  their  inborn  skepticism,  never  deceived  by  appear- 
ances. Even  the  locomotives  are  not  left  unexamined.  They 
have  been  found  to  be  full  of  cigars,  an  article  which,  next  to 
liquor,  is  under  the  highest  tax ; twenty-five  centimes  is  paid  on 
each  cigar  before  its  smoke  is  allowed  to  mix  with  the  boulevard 
perfume.  The  octroi  is,  on  the  whole,  said  to  be  cheated  of  an 
average  amount  of  ten  million  francs  a year.  Everybody  smug- 
gles ; even  the  lawyer  carries  his  large  portfolio  when  he  goes 
hunting,  so  that  he  may  bring  his  game  home  unobserved  by  the 
octroi.  Perhaps  people  would  be  a little  more  conscientious  if 
they  took  into  consideration  whom  they  are  really  imposing 
upon.  About  twenty  millions  of  the  octroi  profit  is  used  for 
charitable  institutions,  ten  for  public  instruction,  over  thirty  for 
great  enterprises  which  benefit  the  public,  and  he  who  pays  his 
money  out  to  the  octroi,  forgets  that  these  sous  are  given  him 
back,  with  full  interest,  in  many  different  ways.  Everything  has, 
of  course,  its  dark  side,  but  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
octroi  institution  has  many  bright  sides,  in  adding  to  the  wealth 
of  the  city  and  offering  it  the  means  of  maintaining  its  position 
as  the  metropolis  of  the  world. 


XIII. 

Modern  Reporters. 


FLAUBERT  the  Great — French  realists  add 
the  adjective  “ great  ” to  Flaubert’s  name, 
just  as  historians  do  to  Alexander’s,  Peter’s, 
Napoleon’s,  etc.;  in  each  case  this  adjective  is 
indispensable, — Flaubert  the  Great  would,  ac- 
cording to  Zola;  fly  into  a perfect  frenzy  when 
a reporter  called  on  him.  Several  days  after 
his  mind  would  still  be  occupied  by  this  call, 
and  he  would,  with  broad,  indignant  gestures, 
declare  that  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  give  his 
works  to  the  public,  but  that  his  home,  his 
person,  his  mode  of  life  and  habit  of  thought 
were  his  own  and  his  only,  and  were  something 
holy  and  inviolable,  that  he  had  a right  to  pro- 
tect against  indiscreet  curiosity.  Zola  would 
then  try  to  explain  to  his  friend  and  master 
that  he — the  author  of  “ Madame  Bovary  ” — 
this  masterpiece  of  documental  romances — was  not  quite  logical 
when  he  took  offense  at  the  journalistic  course  of  proceeding, 
which  was  the  same  investigation  that  he  had  himself  used 
in  literature.  When  Flaubert  was  in  this  boiling  heat,  he  was 
perfectly  unsusceptible  to  logic,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  Zola 
might  say,  he  continued  to  rage  against  the  disgraceful  report- 
ers. If  he  had  not  died  before  now,  they  would  surely  have 
been  the  death  of  him,  for  since  his  time  they  have  made 
gigantic  progress.  They  are  omnipresent  and  omnipotent.  It  is 
no  longer  only  the  street  that  belongs  to  them,  but  also  all  insti- 
tutions and  private  houses  as  well.  They  are  the  rulers  and  the 
lions  of  the  day,  the  most  characteristic  types  of  their  time. 

Parisian  journalists  have  three  canonized  saints,  to  whom 
they  look  up  with  reverential  worship, — namely  Girardin,  mas-* 

131 


132 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


ter  of  the  implacable  paradox ; Veuillot,  the  incomparable  con- 
troversialist,  and  Villemessant,  the  originator  of  Figaro  and  the 
Figaro  style.  The  latter’s  influence  has  been  the  greatest ; he 
was,  in  fact,  the  most  genuine  journalist,  and  knew  to  perfection 
the  art  of  understanding  his  readers  and  satisfying  their  tastes. 
It  is  during  his  time  that  the  reporter  made  his  first  appearance 
on  French  ground  ; or,  at  least,  the  reporter  in  his  true  form — 
that  from  the  other  side  of  the  ocean.  Before  his  time  the  Paris 
press  was  light  and  full  of  esprit , yet  nothing  as  a source  of  news  ; 
but  in  the  school  founded  by  him,  capacities  that  might  rival 
those  of  their  American  colleagues  have  gradually  been  devel- 
oped. The  Figaro , as  a typical  Parisian  paper,  has  been  suc- 
ceeded by  the  Matin.  This  paper  does,  indeed,  constantly  print 
“ Premier  Paris”  at  the  head  of  each  copy;  but  all  the  room  left 
is  filled  with  reports  from  other  places,  written  with  great  con- 
ciseness. It  owes  its  success  mainly  to  the  connections  it  has 
with  the  whole  world  through  telegraphy  and  correspondence, 
and  it  follows,  moreover,  in  all  respects  the  American  patterns. 
The  penny  paper — and  it  evidently  seems  to  have  a great  future — 
follows  more  and  more  the  track  commenced  with  such  great  suc- 
cess, and  the  great  as  well  as  the  small  have  established  them- 
selves definitely  on  French  ground.  There  has  not  as  yet  risen  a 
Stanley  out  of  the  ranks,  but  Rouvier  commenced  as  a reporter 
at  Agence  Havas,  which  did  not  prevent  him  from  finally  becom- 
ing minister,  and  his  case  is  not  altogether  exceptional.  The 
reporter  may  become  almost  anything  if  he  plays  his  cards  well. 
The  beginning,  however,  is  very  hard,  and  there  must  be  done  a 
great  deal  of  work  before  the  spurs  are  won. 

The  small  reporters  in  Paris  are  not  very  different  from  what 
they  are  elsewhere,  and  subsist  by  picking  up  news  at  the  police 
prefecture  about  last  night’s  murder,  sensational  thefts,  and  other 
similarly  interesting  facts,  and  then,  on  the  basis  of  the  facts 
obtained,  setting  on  foot  investigations  at  the  expense  of  the 
paper.  It  is  in  the  police  prefect’s  cabinet,  from  the  chief  of 
detectives,  or  from  the  different  commissaries,  that  the  reporter 
generally  gets  the  frame  for  his  sensational  articles.  The  news 
is  instantly  telegraphed  to  the  paper,  and  he  hurries  out  on  his 
voyage  of  discovery.  He  first  goes  to  the  place  where  the  crime 
has  been  committed,  makes  a drawing  to  be  reproduced  in  the 


MODERN  REPORTERS. 


*33 


columns  of  the  paper,  notes  carefully  all  the  subordinate  circum- 
stances he  can  get  information  of,  in  order  to  found  a hypothesis 
on  these  facts,  questions  everybody,  even  to  the  victim  if  he  is 
not  completely  killed,  and  does  not  rest  until  he  can  present  his 
readers  with  a detailed  account  of  how  it  all  happened,  and,  if 
there  be  any  mystery  connected  with  the  matter,  at  least  give  a 
likely  proposition  of  its  solution.  It  happens  almost  daily  that 
the  police,  on  reading  the  papers  in  the  morning,  finds  new  informa- 
tion about  the  cases  on  hand,  and  it  is  often  through  the  press 
that  they  get  the  best  clues.  But  in  spite  of  the  good  services 
of  these  reporters,  the  greater  part  of  them  still  belong  to  the 
proletariat  of  the  Paris  press,  and  their  position  is  but  poor. 

Each  paper  has  an  editor  for  the  general  news  articles,  who 
occupies  a prominent  and  well-paid  position  ; but  under  him  is  an 
assorted  number  of  privates  earning  their  bread  by  the  sweat  of 
their  brow.  They  are  not  regularly  connected  with  one  special 
paper  ; each  of  them  works  for  at  least  four  or  five  at  once  ; he  is 
paid  one  hundred  francs  a month  by  one,  sixty  by  another,  and 
fifty  by  a third,  and  he  may,  in  this  way,  have  an  average  income 
of  three  to  four  hundred  francs  a month  ; but  this  does  not 
carry  him  far  in  Paris.  He  would,  moreover,  not  be  able  to  earn 
that  much  if  the  solidarity  between  the  reporters  were  less  abso- 
lute than  it  is  ; they  are  on  the  best  terms  and  divide  the  eighty 
police  stations  of  the  city  between  themselves ; and  when  they  have 
got  their  information  there,  they  let  their  colleagues  share  the  har- 
vest. This  exchange  of  news  takes  place  at  a wine  merchant’s  on 
the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  once  a day  ; and  once  during  the  night 
the  reporters  meet  there  and  keep  their  halles  aux  faits  divers. 
They  exchange  the  story  of  a robbery  or  an  assault  for  an  account 
of  a riot ; a murder  for  a fire  ; everybody  is  in  a hurry  ; notes  are 
taken  down  quickly,  and  they  rush  away  again,  hoping  to  have 
made  the  day  pay  ; but  this  hope  is  often  illusory,  for  the  editor 
may  reject  the  poor  reporter’s  lines — many  papers  pay  by  the 
line — or  a less  delicate  colleague  may  have  hurried  in  advance  of 
him  to  the  editor’s  office,  and  had  his  article  accepted. 

The  reporter  always  walks  ; he  cannot  get  a cab  on  account, 
and  even  if  he  could,  he  would  rather  save  the  money.  Colds 
and  all  other  illnesses  fall  like  showers  upon  him,  and,  as  a rule, 
his  life  is  only  short ; between  forty  and  forty-five  he  is  completely 


134  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

worn  out.  His  mode  of  living  is  against  all  hygienic  rules;  he 
eats  when  he  can  find  time,  at  small,  miserable  restaurants,  but 
beyond  all  he  is  obliged  to  drink — and  as  a rule  the  very  worst 
stuff  — with  the  policemen,  of  whom  he  knows  almost  all,  and 
treats  the  greater  part,  in  the  hope  that  they  may  commit  an 
indiscretion  and  pay  for  the  drink  with  their  news.  Those  who 
have  never  looked  behind  the  scenes  are  apt  to  picture  the  life 
of  the  reporter  as  a permanent,  paradisaical  existence,  with  a 
continual  round  of  festivals,  banqueting  in  company  with  all  the 
actresses  who  compete  for  the  favor  of  his  High-mightiness.  In 
real  life  the  coloring  of  the  picture  is  very  different.  His  hunt 
for  news  is  like  that  of  a dog  following  a track,  and  his  position 
is  only  improved  when  he  rises  to  the  higher  spheres  of  the 
profession.  His  first  promotion  is  to  be  made  “ mondain  ” re- 
porter. 

There  is  a great  difference  between  “ la  mondaine  ” of  our 
time  and  “ la  grande  dame  ” of  former  days.  La  grande  dame 
was  the  pride  of  the  society  to  which  she  belonged  ; she  did  not 
hesitate  to  interest  herself  in  political  and  literary  matters,  and 
to  manage  them  in  her  own  way ; she  watched  the  king’s  minis- 
ters, his  generals,  the  academists,  the 
financiers,  and  the  philosophers.  But 
womanly  modesty  was  over  all  that  she 
did  ; she  staid  at  home,  partaking  in  the 
intrigues,  but  so  that  the  street  public  did 
not  see  it ; she  did  not  overstep  her  ter- 
ritory ; gallantry  made  her  a sovereign 
and  she  reigned  by  virtue  of  love.  In 
spite  of  the  entanglements  into  which 
this  might  lead  her  she  remained  always 
la  grande  dame ; a being  conscious  of 
having  blue  blood  in  her  veins  and  recog- 
nizing the  obligations  under  which  this 
placed  her.  The  faculty  and  inclination 
for  being  “ mondaine  ” at  the  present  day 
depend  on  entirely  different  qualities. 
First  of  all,  it  is  not  at  all  “ blood,”  but  money  and  self- 
assertion  that  are  required.  La  grande  mondaine  never  puts 
her  light  under  a bushel ; on  the  contrary,  she  understands  well 


MODERN  REPORTERS. 


135 


how  to  arrange  it,  so  surrounded  with  glasses  that  it  may  shine 
with  a hundred  reflections.  Excitement  and  luxury  are  her  high- 
est idols  ; her  greatest  fear  that  of  having  a child  ; that  might 

ruin  her  beauty  and  prevent  her 
from  continuing  the  endless  ner- 
vous hunt  after  pleasure.  She 
flees  from  her  home  to  show  her- 
self, her  costumes  and  her  dia- 
monds, wherever  there  is  a possi- 
bility of  being  conspicuous,  or  she 
invites  the  whole  world,  people 
has  never  laid 
before,  to  her 
home  to  daz- 
zle them  with 
the  luxury  of 
herentertain- 
ments.  . She 
m a y throw 
herself  away 
on  the  first 
actor  or 
groom  that 
offers  him- 
self, but  she 
cannot  love. 
When  she 
puts  on  a 
languishing 
look  in  the 
salon,  it  is 
aimed  at  the 
reporter,  that 
he  may  talk 

about  her  velvet  and  laces.  The  one  thing  necessary  for  her  is  to 
have  “ a good  report  ” for  all  that  she  does ; for  her  church-going 
as  well  as  for  her  balls  ; for  her  toilets,  for  the  horses  she  rides  in 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  for  the  dogs  that  she  hunts  with  at  her 
country-seat.  And  then  the  very  thing  happens  that  happened 


THE  REPORTER  AT  THE  “GRAND  BAL. 


136 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


to  Count  de  Camoel,  in  Victor  Malot’s  “.Mondaine.”  Some  time 
before  Mme.  de  Camoel’s  great  ball,  her  husband  received  a call 
from  a gentleman,  who  drew  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  small 
notices  like  those  previously  given  in  the  papers  were  not  suffi- 
cient for  a festival  such  as  the  one  about  to  be  given.  It  would 
be  necessary  to  have  a leading  article  on  the  first  page  of 
four  or  five  of  the  most  prominent  boulevard  papers,  smaller 
articles  on  the  second  pages  of  other  important  but  more 
serious  papers,  and  a few  short  but  characteristic  lines  in  the 
remaining  ones.  When  the  astonished  count  asked  if  this  was 
meant  to  be  an  advertising  business  that  was  proposed  to  him, 
it  transpired  that  this  gentleman  was  an  agent  for  “ annonces 
mondaines,”  and  undertook  the  whole  for  a certain  amount, 
making  the  necessary  arrangements  with  each  paper.  Nobody, 
he  assured  the  count,  would  be  able  to  offer  him  the  same  ad- 
vantages and  arrange  it  all  in  as  good  form.  However  exag- 
gerated such  a scene  may  seem,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a true  picture 
of  modern  conditions.  Agents  of  this  kind  are  the  true  “ pillars 
of  society  ” in  all  aspects,  and  they  find  as  much  to  do  as  they 
can  wish  for.  If  sometimes  they  should  be  unhappy  enough  to 
meet  a man  who,  like  Malot’s  Count  de  Camoel,  is  not  only  of 
good  old-fashioned  nobility  but  a bit  of  an  artist,  or  whose  whole 
nature  refuses  to  acknowledge  the  mighty  power  of  advertise- 
ments, all  they  need  do  is  to  knock  at  the  next  door  to  be 
received  with  open  arms.  The  proposal  indignantly  refused  by 
the  count  is,  without  any  haggling,  accepted  by  the  wife  on  her 
own  account  and  paid  for  out  of  the  paternal  purse.  The  archi- 
tect who  has  built  the  new  ball-room,  the  painters  who  have  deco- 
rated it,  and  the  electrician  who  had  charge  of  the  lights,  all  are, 
in  their  way,  separate  advertisements  for  the  fete.  Part  of  the 
profit  goes  to  the  papers  and  part  to  the  reporter;  every  great 
modern  ball  has  its  chief  reporter,  who  is  marshal  at  the  ball,  the 
center  of  its  life  and  master  of  its  fate,  offices  which,  of  course,  he 
is  paid  for.  It  is  not  only  what  passes  in  real  high  life,  the  salon 
events  and  the  boudoir  secrets,  that  are  put  in  the  paper  with  all 
possible  details.  Apart  from  this  society,  there  is  the  far  greater 
one  of  the  people  who  give  themselves  the  appearance  of  belonging 
to  it,  and  who  would  even  ruin  themselves  in  order  to  be  put  on 
the  pedestal  of  publicity. 


MODERN  REPORTERS. 


*37 


The  main  branch  of  the  reporter’s  business,  however,  was  in 
France  a natural  consequence  of  the  publicity  of  the  parlia- 
mentary proceedings,  of  the  change  in  the  government,  and 
finally  of  the  removal  of  the  national  convention  from  Paris.  Each 
of  the  great  papers  sent  every  day  two  of  its  best  reporters  to  Ver- 
sailles, one  to  follow  the  proceedings  and  write  what  was  called 
the  “parliamentary  letter,”  the  other  to  make  notes  of  all  the 
rumors  from  the  chamber  that  he  could  pick  up,  discover  the 
bills  before  they  were  yet  planned,  and  anticipate  eventual  parlia- 
mentary crises.  The  journey  to  and  fro,  in  company  with 
deputies  and  journalists,  was  in  this  respect  of  untold  service  to 
him.  Plans  and  intrigues  were  unveiled  on  the  way,  and  the 
fellow-traveler  was  made  acquainted  with  much  that  would  have 
been  hidden  from  the  interviewer.  There  were,  moreover, 
among  these  deputies  several  men  who  were  new  in  the  pro- 
fession, and  had  no  objection  to  having  some  prestige  attributed 
to  them  by  the  papers,  and  the  parliamentary  reporter  became 
gradually  in  this  way  a “ gros  personnage” 

Party  leaders,  candidates  for  the  ministry, 
and  defeated  candidates  learned  to  use  them 
to  support  a scheme  or  to  overthrow  it,  to 
explain  their  conduct  and  thereby  lessen  the 
humiliation  of  their  defeat.  Even  those  in 
power  ended  by  not  despising  the  reporter’s 
assistance  when  they  had  to  work  against 
some  conspiracy,  when  some  important  item 
of  intelligence  was  to  be  circulated  in  the 
proper  way,  or  when  some  necessary  rectifica- 
tion had  to  be  made.  The  political  reporter  be- 
came a social  power  ; he  was  sure  of  being 
decorated,  and,  if  he  had  played  his  cards  well, 
he  might  generally  count  on  a lucrative  situa- 
tion in  the  administration,  and  sometimes  even 
aspire  to  a diplomatic  position.  From  domes-  THE  political  re- 

. 1 , r PORTER. 

tic  news  the  reporters  have,  with  good  suc- 
cess, ventured  upon  foreign  news.  They  converse  with  ambas- 
sadors and  sovereigns  that  pass  through  the  city,  or  even  seek 
them  at  their  own  residences,  and  they  are  decidedly  superior  to 
their  English  and-American  colleagues  in  the  art  of  making  the 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


138 

conversation  appear  interesting  on  paper,  however  light  and 
impalpable  the  subject  may  be.  They  make  all  prominent  per- 
sons, all  the  stars  of  the  day,  authors  and  artists,  their  especial 
prey.  When  Edison  comes  they  meet  him,  after  the  fashion  of 
his  countrymen,  at  some  distance  from  the  town,  and  during  the 
four  hours’  drive  from  Havre  to  Paris  they  question  him  closely. 

The  Parisians  who  are  at  all  “ en  Evidence  ” cannot  have  any 
domestic  quarrel  where  the  reporter  does  not  instantly  appear  to 
make  a note  of  madame’s  tears,  and  of  how  much  china  the  jeal- 
ous husband  has  broken. 
Most  characteristic,  how- 
ever, is  the  change  made 
in  the  chronique  by  this 
new  journalism.  The 
chronique  was  formerly  only 
made  up  of  light  discus- 
sions, the  very  personifica- 
tion of  the  old  French  cau- 
ser ies.  For  the  chroniqueurs 
the  subject  was  of  no  con- 
sequence, the  form  every- 
thing. His  brilliant  im- 
provisations over  the  small 
and  the  great  questions  of 
the  day  were  not  expected 
to  be  absolutely  reliable  or 
severely  logical ; the  princi- 
pal thing  was  that  his  arti- 
cle was  full  of  imagination, 
with  flashes  of  intelligence 
and  wit  that  would  dazzle 
and  amuse.  It  did  no  harm  if,  besides  this,  he  were  a well-informed 
man  of  good  morals,  but  his  style  was  the  principal  thing,  and 
his  first  duty  in  life  that  of  being  a stylist.  He  ought  to  be  able 
to  talk  about  nothing,  so  that  his  very  chattering  was  pleasing. 
He  was  the  heir  of  the  old  French  causerie ; through  him  the 
salon  was  able  to  help  its  reputation,  and  the  Parisian  ladies  were 
grateful  to  him  for  the  recollections  awakened  by  his  articles  of 
amiable,  peaceful  conversations  held  “in  the  corner  near  the  fire- 


madame’s  tale  of  woes. 


MODERN  REPORTERS. 


*39 


place,”  over  a cup  of  good  tea.  These  old  marshals  of  the  chro- 
nique  are  not  yet  dead,  but  their  successors  do  not  follow  in  their 
footsteps  ; even  the  chronique  has  become  documental.  The 
modern  French  chroniqueur  founds  his  article  on  facts;  he  is 
really  a reporter  who  has  borrowed  the  costumes  of  the 
“ causeur." 

The  reporter  is  a true  child  of  the  age  ; it  is,  as  Zola  said  to 
Flaubert,  simply  the  naturalistic  course  of  proceedings  carried  out 
in  journalism.  One  thing  keeps  step  with  the  other  in  the  intel- 
lectual development  of  a people,  and  the  same  tool  is  used  by  all 
workers  belonging  to  the  same  time.  The  generation  that  wants 
no  other  novel  than  the  one  founded  on  documents  can  only  read 
a paper  which,  from  the  first  article  to  the  last,  tells  facts  and 
nothing  but  facts.  The  press  ought  naturally  to  be  the  proper 
place  for  documents.  Zola  declares,  while  substantiating  the 
brotherhood  of  the  reporter  and  the  naturalistic  novelist,  that  he, 
for  one,  does  not  object  to  the  documentary  articles,  the  reports, 
still  warm,  of  reality.  That  is  just  what  he  reads.  He  confines 
himself  to  the  exact  account  of  events,  the  picture  given  of  a 
meeting  or  assembly,  the  true  portraits  of  prominent  people  of 
the  day,  and  the  reports  of  interviews  relating  the  actual  words, 
and  to  plays  and  incidents  described  even  to  the  most  insignifi- 
cant details  by  eye-witnesses,  whose  principal  aim  it  has  been  to 
do  it  with  photographic  truth.  An  argument  tires  and  irritates 
him,  while  he  never  wearies  of  being  made  acquainted  with 
events.  His  adaptation  of  z''  \ Parisian  reports  is  like  the 

crowning  of  a develop-  f ment  which,  although 


of  comparatively  recent 
gradually  reached  a point 
the  crown. 


date,  nevertheless  has 
where  it  is  worthy  of 


XIV. 

Nurses  and  Children. 


THE  Parisian  population  increases  like  certain  Russian  sects — 
less  by  propagation  than  by  the  recruiting  of  proselytes. 
The  greater  part  of  the  citizens  are  not  placed  here  by  birth,  but 
by  their  own  free  choice,  and  this  is  perhaps  the  reason  why 
they  are  so  attached  to  their  beautiful  city.  When,  neverthe- 
less, it  sometimes  happens  that  a child  sees  the  daylight  for  the 
first  time  within  these  walls,  the  rule  is  that  it  should  be  sent  out 
of  the  city  as  quickly  as  possible.  Papa  and  mamma  are  in  most 
cases  too  busy  with  other  things  to  meddle  with  the  education 
of  their  children.  The  little  one  is  put  cn  nourrice  in  the  coun- 
try, where  it  is  hardened  for  the  battle  of  life.  While  its 
adopted  mother  is  at  work  in  the  fields,  it  hangs  “ au  clou"  at 
home,  and  the  milk  that  has  to  suffice  for  her  own  child  also,  is 
often  replaced  by  potato  peelings,  a little  sour  wine,  a little 
decayed  fruit,  or  whatever  may  be  most  handy.  After  a few 


143 


144 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


months  the  little  Parisian  begins  to  suffer  from  all  sorts  of  ill- 
nesses, which  generally  end  by  killing  the  child.  If  it  be  of 
a sufficiently  tough  constitution  to  survive  this  treatment,  the 
parents  may  feel  safe  in  taking  it  home  ; it  will  have  proved  that 
it  was  born  to  be  a Parisian. 

Only  the  fortunate,  who  are  well  off,  think  of  keeping  the 
children  during  the  first  months  ; it  is  a luxury  that  is  not 
thought  of  till  after  that  of  keeping  carriage  and  horses  has  been 
attained.  For,  in  these  high  spheres  of  society,  Madame’s  social 
duties  and  delicate  constitution  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  do 
anything  for  her  children.  They  must  be  taken  to  a nurse  sur 
place , and  this  is  synonymous  with  the  entry  of  a dragon  more 
all-engulfing  than  the  vessel  of  the  Danaides.  It  is  not  difficult 
to  find  her.  Taking  a cab  and  ordering  the  driver  to  take  you 
to  the  nearest  “ bureau,”  you  will  soon  find  yourself  in  a com- 
plete office  for  nurses  and  children.  Women  of  all  ages  and 
types  sit  on  parade  in  the  yard  as  you  pass  by,  and  whatever 
may  be  your  demands,  the  lady  of  the  establishment  always 
assures  you  that  she  has  a dozen  persons  on  hand  of  just  the 
desired  qualities.  The  nurse’s  own  ponpon  is  always  brought 
forth  as  a proof  of  the  splendid  result  obtained  under  her  supe- 
rior care.  It  is,  of  course,  a prodigy  of  a child  ; two  or  three 
specimens  kept  in  the  office  reappear  at  each  presentation. 
The  nurses  are,  each  and  all,  proved  to  possess  the  very  virtues 
and  character  you  would  like  to  find  in  the  woman  that  is  to 
bring  up  your  child.  They  are  willing  to  do  any  work  that 
might  be  wanted  of  them,  and  with  a conviction  that  seems  full  of 
sincerity,  they  assure  their  future  mistress  that  she  can  engage 
without  any  risks,  she  cannot  help  but  be  satisfied  with  them. 
In  this  way  the  only  remaining  trouble  is  the  choice.  Madame 
has  the  three  or  four  that  please  her  most  sent  to  her  doctor  to 
let  him  decide  the  matter.  And  then  it  may  sometimes  trans- 
pire that  one  of  these  chosen  ones  has  some  contagious  disease 
of  the  most  deplorable  kind.  Even  in  the  case  of  the  one  de- 
clared acceptable,  the  doctor  may  have  sundry  misgivings.  But 
Madame  knows  that  doctors  are  inclined  to  be  skeptical,  and  she 
does  not  allow  this  to  cool  her  enthusiasm  over  the  treasure  she 
has  found. 

No  nurse  takes  any  position  under  sixty  francs  in  Paris,  and 


NURSES  AND  CHILDREN.  145 

if  the  lady  who  comes  to  engage  her  seems  especially  high-born, 
she  is  apt  to  ask  a hundred.  Then  there  is  the  commission  to 
be  paid  to  the  agency,  first  what  the  family  has  to  pay,  and  then 


HUNG  UP  ON  THE  PEG. 

the  four  or  five  per  cent,  of  the  yearly  salary  of  the  nurse,  which 
her  mistress  pays  in  advance;  this  money  can  be  deducted  from 
her  wages,  if  she  does  not  make  it  a condition  that  it  should  be 


146 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


paid  for  her,  and  she  hardly  ever  forgets  to  do  this.  Further, 
her  debts  at  the  agency  must  be  cleared,  and  the  expenses  of 
sending  her  child  home  to  her  family,  where  it  is  kept  during 
her  absence,  must  be  paid.  The  whole  seldom  amounts  to  less 
than  one  and  often  to  more  than  two  hundred  francs. 

Then  Nounou  makes  her  entry  in  the  house,  seldom  with 
much  baggage,  at  most  a bundle  containing  an  old  prayer- 
book  and  a few  photographs  of  her  friends.  Every  day  she  has 
a princely  dinner ; the  servants  can  demand  almost  anything  in 
her  name,  and  for  her  sake  they  do  not  object  to  go  to  the  extra 
trouble  of  making  an  “entremets!'  In  return  for  the  good  will 
shown  her,  Nounou  undertakes  the  care  of  the  little  one,  but  her 
offer  to  make  herself  of  use  in  the  house  is  only  a phrase  used  at 
the  agency.  The  nurse’s  duties  in  a Parisian  house  are  clearly 
defined  ; she  makes  her  own  and  the  child’s  bed,  but  the  clean- 
ing and  sweeping  of  the  room  is  left  for  others  to  do.  She 
never  thinks  of  doing  any  washing  for  the  baby;  it  might  give 
her  a cold  to  have  her  hands  continually  in.  water,  and  it  is  still 
more  impossible  for  her  to  iron,  the  smoke  from  the  hot  iron  is 
dangerous  for  the  baby.  As  soon  as  she  touches  a needle,  the 
little  one  begins  to  cry  and  has  to  be  taken  up ; it  only  sleeps 
quietly  when  its  beloved  Nounou  sits  bent  over  the  cradle  and 
watches  over  its  dreams.  If  there  are  other  children  in  the 
house,  she  considers  it  her  especial  duty  not  to  look  after  them. 
From  the  moment  she  is  under  the  roof  of  her  new  masters,  they 
are  obliged  to  keep  her  clothed.  This  is  quite  easily  done;  one 
has  only  to  send  to  one  of  the  large  magazins  for  a complete 
outfit  for  a nurse.  There  are  certain  rules  of  how  many  pieces 
of  underclothing  and  dresses  this  includes.  It  is  only  in  the 
outer  garment  that  there  can  be  made  any  display  of  the  money 
one  has,  or  pretends  to  have,  and  this  is  seldom  spared.  When 
people  have  gone  so  far  as  to  have  a nurse  in  the  house,  they  will 
at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of  creating  a certain  effect  with 
her,  and  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  nurses  one  meets  in  the  parks  and 
squares  are  decked  with  long  richly  folded  cloaks,  headgears 
adjusted  with  gold  pins,  and  long  silk  ribbons  falling  down  their 
backs.  Nounou  herself  is  modest  in  her  taste  ; she  does  not  care 
for  all  this  magnificence  ; if  her  mistress  consults  her,  she  answers 
inevitably  that  the  plainest  is  good  enough  for  her.  She  is  not 


NURSES  AND  CHILDREN. 


*47 


like  the  other  servants,  who  spend  their  master’s  money  simply 
for  the  pleasure  of  doing  so. 

Nounou  belongs  to  the  house  ; she  knows  that  the  more  there 
is,  the  more  will  find  its  way  to  her  bureau.  She  gets  this  bureau, 

if  not  before,  at  least  when  there 
comes  word  that  her  own  child 
has  died.  This  is  a thing  that 
always  happens,  especially  when 
Nounou  is  young  and  has  sent 
the  child  to  its  grand- 
mother, who  knows  how 
much  such  a young  one 
is  in  the  way  in  a mod- 
est household.  The 
poor  mother  is  bathed 
in  tears,  and  for  fear 
that  her  sorrow  may 


MADAME  SHOWS  OFF  HER  NURSE. 


make  her  ill,  and  through  her  the  child,  the  bureau  is,  at  the 
advice  of  a fellow-servant,  offered  as  a comfort ; and  every 
time  after  this,  when  anything  worries  Nounou,  one  piece 
after  another  finds  its  way  to  her  drawer  for  the  same  rea- 
son. Besides  this,  all  the  trifles  that  Nounou  is  allowed  to 
pick  up  because  they  only  lie  around,  and  are  of  no  use,  go  to 


148 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  same  place,  and  so  do  all  other  things  that  she  takes  without 
thinking  it  necessary  to  ask  for  them.  When  her  mistress  leaves 
breast-pins,  or  any  other  things  of  this  kind,  on  the  table  or  the 
mantel-piece,  Nounou,  looking  upon  them  as  little  knick-knacks, 
picks  them  up  and  amuses  herself  looking  at  them  until  she  mislays 
them  in  her  own  drawers.  She  uses  silver  forks  and  spoons  as 
shoe-horns,  whereby  they  after  a while  find  their  natural  place  in 
her  bureau  drawer.  Then  there  is  no  longer  room  enough  in  Nou- 
nou’s  bureau  ; it  is  replaced  by  another  one,  and  still  another  one, 
and  when  finally  the  child  is  weaned  and  Nounou  sent  home,  she 
has  to  have  at  least  two  wagons  to  take  her  things  to  the  depot. 
These  are  the  direct  taxes  paid  for  her  services, — but,  consistent 
with  French  custom,  the  indirect  ones  are  the  highest.  It  is  not 
only  Nounou  who  belongs  to  the  house,  but  also  all  her  rela- 
tives,— the  whole  province  that  she  comes  from.  The  master  and 
mistress  are,  from  the  moment  she  enters  their  service,  considered  a 
special  providence,  to  whose  unlimited  mercy  she  may  apply  when 
anything  goes  wrong  in  that  part  of  the  country  to  which  her 
heart  is  attached.  If  her  family  is  visited  by  illness,  her  master 
takes  pleasure  in  paying  the  doctor’s  and  apothecary’s  bill;  if  a 
hail-storm  destroys  the  crop,  they  perform  the  duty  of  an  insur- 
ance company;  and  if  a cow  or  calf  dies,  Nounou  only  needs  to 
weep  on  its  grave  to  have  it  replaced  by  another  the  next  day. 
And  it  is  really  wonderful  how  many  accidents  happen  in  just  that 
particular  part  of  France  where  Nounou  comes  from.  It  is  like- 
wise remarkable  how  the  inborn  self-indulgence  of  the  children 
seems  to  be  imparted  to  the  nurse.  The  peasant  woman  who  used 
to  eat  her  cabbage  with  the  rabbits  at  home,  has  hardly  had  the 
care  of  the  little  Parisian  one  day,  before  the  best  fillet  is  scarcely 
good  enough  for  her.  She  would  rather  starve  than  eat  a hash. 
She  would  like  to  have  fruit,  but  that  has  been  interdicted  by 
the  doctor,  and  it  is  therefore  necessary  to  rack  one’s  brain  to 
think  of  a dessert  for  Nounou.  Fortunately,  the  cook  is,  in  this 
respect,  unusually  willing  to  take  almost  any  trouble. 

Her  principal  occupation  is  to  walk  with  bibL  This  quiet  way 
of  spending  the  day  pleases  her,  and  she  knows  well  how  to  edu- 
cate the  child  to  share  her  tastes;  they  are  of  one  mind  and  one 
thought.  As  soon  as  Nounou  thinks  it  time  to  go  out,  the  young 
one  begins  to  scream  so  that  you  can  hear  it  all  over  the  house. 


NURSES  AT  THE  TUILERIES  GARDENS. 


149 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


IS® 


Then  mamma  sends  them  both  to  the  Parc  Monceau,  to  the 
Tuileries,  or  the  Luxembourg  gardens,  whichever  they  are  nearest 
to,  and  here  Nounou  is  at  her  ease  ; here  also  she  finds  friends 


in  whose  company  the  hours  glide  by  with  a 
comfortable  chat,  and  if  she  comes  at  all  regu- 
larly it  is  not  long  before  the  little  soldier  from 
her  province  makes  his  appearance  as  often  as 
possible  to  talk  over  the  news  from  their  vil- 
lage. Then  the  idyl  is  complete;  Nounou 
has  all  that  she  in  her  modesty  demands  of  life 
to  be  happy. 


It  is  not  known  that  Nounou  does  not  care 
for  the  child.  She  does,  perhaps,  in  her  own 
way,  but  her  love  is  of  a very  different  character 
from  a mother’s.  Not  to  bring  their  different 
educational  systems  into  conflict,  she  prefers 
that  mamma  should  look  after  her  own  busi- 
ness and  leave  the  child  to  her.  There  are 


H G4„J  mothers  who  consider  it  their  duty  to  accom- 
pany  Nounou  to  the  park.  But,  as  a rule,  this 
has  only  the  effect  of  irritating  Nounou,  and 

THE  LITTLE  SOLDIER.  ° . 

through  her  the  child,  so  that  it  screams  all 
the  time.  Nounou  follows  closely  the  saying  that  the  child 
we  love  we  ought  to  chasten,  and  there  are  even  examples 
of  her  having  carried  this  injunction  farther  than  the  tribu- 
nals and  lawyers  thought  advisable.  As  to  the  child’s  rela- 
tion to  soap  and  water  and  candy,  her  views  are  apt  to  differ 
very  much  from  her  mistress’s.  She  is  deeply  convinced  that 
everything  connected  with  bathing  can  only  check  the  growth, 
and  it  is  impossible  for  her  to  see  that  a little  candy  can  have 
any  other  effect  than  of  quieting  the  child  when  it  cries.  If 
this  should  happen  in  the  night,  she  even  thinks  that  a few 
drops  of  a sleeping  draught  might  do  the  little  one  good,  and 
always  looks  upon  it  as  pure  spitefulness  when  she  is  told  not  to 
let  the  baby  sleep  in  her  bed.  It  has  happened  occasionally  that 
a nurse  has  killed  a child  by  lying  on  it,  but  everybody  can  under- 
stand how  comfortable  it  must  be  for  the  little  darling  to  be  kept 
warm.  Nounou's  love  for  bdbt?,  however,  shows  itself  in  the  pret- 
tiest way  when  the  little  thing  is  dressed  in  its  best  clothes.  She 


NURSES  AND  CHILDREN . 


IS* 

knows  no  greater  triumph  than,  when  her  mistress  gives  a dinner, 
to  dress  up  the  child  in  all  the  laces  and  embroideries  that  have 
been  given  to  it,  and  carry  it  in  at  the  dessert  to  be  looked  at. 
Nounou  is  then  invited  to  drink  the  baby’s  health  in  champagne, 
and  the  whole  company  is  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  lovely  child 
and  the  splendid  nurse  it  has.  At  such  times  Nounou’s  position 
in  the  house  is  considerably  strengthened  ; everybody  feels  how 
indispensable  she  is,  even  after  the  child  has  been  weaned,  and 
year  after  year  things  go  on  in  the  same  old  way.  Nounou  con- 
tinues her  walks,  and  while  btbi!  makes  dirt  pies,  she  continues 
her  conversation  with  the  little  soldier  from  her  province.  She 
no  longer  brings  in 
her  charge  at  the 
dessert,  but  w hen 
Monsieur  or  Made- 
moiselle receive  a 
printed  invitation  to 
a fancy-dress  ball 
from  their  little  play- 
mates, she  accompa- 
nies them  to  the 
party,  and  it  is  the 
same  enthusiasm 
over  again.  Nounou 
not  only  fills  her  bu- 
reau - drawers  now, 
but  her  bank  book. 

There  is  one  thing, 
however,  that  she 
seldom  learns:  she 
has  never  been 
familiar  with  reading 
or  writing,  and  her 
child  soon  leaves  her 
far  behind  in  this  re- 
spect. But  in  all  nounou  brings  in  b£be  at  dessert-time. 

Parisian  knowledge 

she  is  well  versed,  and  when  the  little  misses  grow  up,  they  will 
never  find  any  one  who  knows  the  latest  fashions  as  well  as  their 


*53 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


old  Nounou.  She  was  brought  into  the  house  to  make  them 
comine  il  fant  as  children,  and  if  she  is  kept  long  enough,  she  is 
perfectly  capable  of  making  them,  when  the  time  comes,  comme 
il  faut  as  ladies. 


XV. 

The  Parisian  Cuisine. 


PARIS  is  not  only  the  city  that  offers  the  best  cuisine,  but 
also  the  place  where,  although  one  has  a greater  appetite 
there  than  anywhere  else,  it  is  easiest  to  be  satisfied.  The  sagas 
of  the  city  tell  about  sad  times  when  people  suffered  from  hun- 
ger; how  at  the  time  of  the  siege  mothers  would  eat  their  dead 
children.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  there  was  a famine  regularly 
every  other  or  third  year,  and  even  under  the  Directory,  Bapea- 
ume  and  his  wife,  who  were  both  inclined  to  stoutness,  did  not 
dare  to  go  out  of  the  house  for  fear  of  being  killed.  Stones  had 
often  been  thrown  after  them,  because  it  was  said  that  they  ate 
as  much  as  four  persons.  Nowadays  it  is  very  different ; every 
one  could  eat  for  a hundred  persons  if  he  wanted  to,  and  nobody 
would  think  of  raising  any  objections  ; and,  if  the  city  govern- 
ment should  think  of  inviting  fifteen  thousand  mayors  to  dinner, 
it  would  only  be  necessary  to  notify  the  cook,  and  nobody  would 
be  troubled  about  the  number  of  plates.  Every  country  sends 
its  contribution  to  the  metropolis  on  the  Seine.  Russia  sends 
sheep  and  game;  Africa,  vegetables  ; Spain,  oranges  ; England, 
salt-water  fish;  Holland,  Switzerland,  and  Italy,  fresh-water 
fish.  There  is  no  spot  in  the  world  possessing  any  rarity  in  the 
eating  line  that  does  not  feel  itself  under  obligation  to  send  it  to 


153 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


*54 

the  Parisian  tables.  Paris  appreciates  them  all,  and  consumes 
every  year  over  seven  hundred  million  pounds  of  bread,  about 
three  hundred  and  fifty  million  pounds  of  meat,  fifty  million 
pounds  of  fish,  fifty  million  pounds  of  fowls  and  game,  nearly 
five  hundred  million  pounds  of  vegetables  and  fruits,  ten  million 
of  which  are  grapes  ; over  ten  million  pounds  of  mussels,  twenty 
million  pounds  of  oysters  ; and  to  prepare  all  this,  forty  million 
pounds  of  butter,  forty  million  of  eggs,  and  about  fifteen  million 
pounds  of  cheese.  Meat  has  more  and  more  become  le plat  de 
resistance  in  all  this  abundance. 

When,  some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  the  railroad  was  built 
between  Rouen  and  Havre,  the  London  society  that  had  charge 
of  it  used  French  and  English  workmen  at  the  same  time.  In 
spite  of  all  their  efforts,  the  French  were  only  able  to  do  half  as 
much  work  daily,  as  their  colleagues  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Channel.  Encouragements  were  of  no  use;  the  reason  was  to  be 
found  in  a physical  inferiority  that  it  was  necessary  to  put  up 
with.  Some  doctors,  who  were  consulted,  examined  the  food 
eaten  by  the  two  sets  of  laborers  ; the  Frenchmen's  dinner  con- 
sisted of  soup,  vegetables,  cheese,  and  a great  deal  of  bread, 
while  the  Englishmen  ate  meat.  The  problem  was  solved.  The 
French  laborers  were  put  on  the  same  fare  as  the  English,  and 
fourteen  days  later  they  performed  the  same  amount  of  work. 
The  Parisians  had  learned  a lesson.  Formerly  it  was  an  excep- 
tion to  find  a laborer  who  ate  meat  ; now  it  is  the  rule.  The 
three  hundred  and  fifty  million  pounds  of  meat  yearly  served  in 
Paris  prove  that  there  is  hardly  any  large  city  where  there  is 
as  much  consumed  as  in  the  French  capital,  and  there  are  very 
few  that  can  be  compared  to  it  in  this  respect,  even  proportion- 
ally. The  three  hundred  thousand  oxen,  two  hundred  and 
twenty  thousand  calves,  and  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
swine  yearly  put  on  the  Parisian  tables,  make  their  daily  entry 
in  Paris  in  an  army  of  about  twenty  thousand.  The  first  camp  is 
the  great  cattle-market  in  La  Villette,  that  can  accommodate  a 
little  more  than  four  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  oxen  and 
twenty-two  thousand  sheep.  When  a drover  has  brought  his 
cattle  through  the  gates  in  the  Rue  d’Allemagne,  he  sends  in  his 
notice,  and  receives  a number.  Before  the  sale  commences  these 
numbers  are  drawn  to  decide  the  distribution  of  the  places,  so 


THE  PARISIAN  CUISINE. 


*55 

that  every  vender  has  to  take  his  chance ; he  sometimes  gets  a 
good  and  sometimes  a bad  place.  There  is  no  possibility  of 
favoritism.  Oxen,  bulls,  and  cows  are  carefully  sorted,  and  every 
animal  bears  a double  mark,  so  that  it  may  instantly  be  seen 
where  it  belongs. 

The  sale  commences  at  ten  and  closes  about  three  o’clock. 
The  owner  does  not  generally  sell  them  himself,— -it  would  be 
too  troublesome  for  him  to  come  to  Paris  ; he  has  his  commis- 
sioners, great  gentlemen,  who  come  to  the  market  in  their  own 
carriages,  and  who  take  a high  percentage,  but  whose  experience 
and  practice  are  invaluable.  When  they  have  examined  the  ani- 
mals for  sale  and  taken  care  to  arrange  them  so  that  they  may 
show  off  to  advantage,  they  go  to  the  cafl  and  leave  the  butchers 
all  the  time  they  want  to  make  their  inspection.  On  both  sides 
they  do  their  best  to  give  themselves  the  appearance  of  not  being 
particularly  anxious  to  close  the  sale.  One,  two,  or  three  hours 
pass  before  any  result  is  obtained,  and  only  about  one  half-hour 
before  the  closing  bell  is  to  sound,  this  quiet  is  changed  into  a 
breathless  and  feverish  haste.  In  a few  minutes  the  offers  are 
made  and  received.  They  shake  hands  with  each  other,  the 
business  is  done,  and  it  is  never  known  that  any  of  the  parties 
breaks  his  word.  The  next  step  is  for  the  animals  to  pass  the 
fateful  bridge  over  the  Ourq  canal.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
Rue  de  Flandre  lie  the  slaughter-houses,  where  they  are  killed 
according  to  the  rules.  Suspicious  of  the  fate  that  awaits  it,  the 
poor  animal  is  pulled  into  the  glass-roofed  yards  by  two  butchers, 
and  there  it  is  to  see  the  daylight  for  the  last  time.  From  these 
yards,  doors  lead  into  the  fchaudoirs,  where  the  flaying  and  the 
“ dressing”  is  done.  Every  wholesale  butcher  has  a place  of  this 
kind.  Here  the  meat  is  hung  up  to  wait  for  the  retail  butchers, 
who  keep  their  shops  in  the  city.  They  very  seldom  buy  at  the 
cattle-market,  or  take  the  trouble  of  doing  their  own  slaugh- 
tering. 

It  is  in  the  Jckctudoirs  that  the  ladies  pay  their  morning  call, 
and  drink  the  blood  that  is  to  cure  the  anaemia  which  they 
invariably  are  subject  to  after  the  turmoil  of  social  life.  Every 
morning  the  young  lady  arrives  here  after  her  lesson  in  gym- 
nastics, to  take  the  glass  of  blood  prescribed  by  her  doctor. 
The  best  oxen  are  chosen  for  her,  and  while  the  butchers  kill 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


156 

the  animal  in  the  next  yard,  she  awaits  outside  for  the  first  glass 
of  warm  blood  taken  from  its  throat.  At  first  it  costs  her  a 
great  effort  to  bring  this  fat,  insipid,  steaming  drink  up  to  her 
mouth,  but  she  is  gradually  hardened  to  this,  as  to  so  many 
other  things,  and  empties  her  glass  as  though  it  contained  milk. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  the  slaughtered  animals  are  hung 
up  ready  for  sale.  First  the  inspectors  of  the  sanitary  police 
come  to  examine  the  meat ; if  there  is  the  least  indication  of  a 
disease  the  sale  is  interdicted ; the  badly  infected  meat  is  dis- 
infected and  destroyed,  while  that  which  is  merely  open  to  sus- 
picion is  sent  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  to  serve  as  food  for  the 
animals.  There  is  confiscated  in  this  way  about  three  hundred 
thousand  pounds  of  meat  yearly  in  the  Parisian  slaughter-houses. 
Early  in  the  afternoon  the  butchers  from  the  aristocratic 
quarters  make  their  appearance.  They  want  meat  of  the  very 
best  quality;  they  are  not  even  afraid  of  paying  more  than  the 
price  when  especially  delicate  pieces  can  be  put  at  their  dis- 
posal, for  they  have  plenty  of  customers  who  make  no  objections, 
even  if  they  have  to  pay  three  francs  for  a pound  of  fillet. 
After  them  come  the  butchers  from  the  business  part  of  the  city, 
to  take  the  ordinary  good  meat,  and,  finally,  towards  evening, 
the  suburban  butchers  from  the  laborers’  districts  come  to  buy 
what  the  others  have  left.  Every  butcher  marks  his  purchase 
with  his  own  especial  stamp,  and  hundreds  of  wagons  roll  day 
and  night  through  the  streets  carrying  the  meat  from  the 
slaughter-houses  to  the  butcher  shops.  These  all  look  alike, 
with  their  front  of  red  wood-work.  The  foreman  stands  there, 
cuts  up  the  meat  and  lays  it  on  the  marble  tables  with  a price 
attached.  When  the  customers  enter  the  shops  this  price  always 
proves  to  be  exceptional  and  only  for  the  piece  in  the  window. 
The  rest,  that  is  not  sold  at  the  slaughter-houses,  is  sent  to  the 
halles , where  the  restaurant  and  boarding-house  keepers  get  it 
for  prices  often  considerably  more  moderate  than  at  the  butcher’s. 
The  halles  are  the  paradise  of  slender  purses.  The  turkey  that, 
dressed  and  stuffed  with  truffles,  costs  thirty-five  francs  in  the 
fruit  and  game  shops,  can  sometimes  be  bought  at  the  halles  for 
eight  or  nine,  not  much  smaller  and  poorer  in  quality.  Even  if 
the  price  of  ordinary  meat  does  not  differ  as  much,  it  is  at  least 
an  economy  that  can  be  felt  in  a household,  when,  instead  of 


THE  PARISIAN  CUISINE. 


*57 


one  franc  fifty  a pound,  which  the  butcher  generally  asks  you, 
you  need  only  to  pay  a franc  and  a few  sous. 

In  the  new  merchants’  exchange,  Paris  has  obtained  a center 

for  its  large  and  important 
bread  transactions.  It  has 
often  been  suggested  to 
found  a large  bakery,  car- 
ried on  at  the  expense  of 
the  city,  or  at  least  under 
control  of  the  municipal 
authorities,  from  where  the 
bread  could  be  sold  directly 
to  the  consumers.  But  they 
have  not  even  succeeded  in 
carrying  out  the  secondary 
proposition  of  a model 
bakery  to  supply  the 
charitable  institutions 


J 


CUT  UP  AND  LABELED  ON  MARBLE  TABLES. 

of  the  city,  and  sell  bread  of  a good  quality  to  the  poor  at  con- 
siderably lower  price  than  that  kept  by  the  bakers.  The 
Parisians  are  still  obliged  to  depend  upon  their  1800  bakershops, 
and  are  served  there  with  all  the  exquisite  politeness  belonging 
to  this  city.  The  bread  is  brought  to  your  door  every  morning 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


IS8 

at  the  time  you  appoint — regardless  of  how  small  a quantity  you 
might  order — by  the  bread-girl.  This  popular  Parisian  type  has 
been  immortalized  in  many  novels. 

There  is,  as  a rule,  no  reason  to  complain  of  the  quality  of  the 
bread;  the  prices,  however,  are  anything  but  low;  it  is  never 

less,  but  often  more,  than  twenty  cen- 
times a pound,  and  if  the  housekeeper 
does  not  have  her  weight  ready  every 
day,  she  will  often  have  reason  to  com- 
plain of  the  quantity.  All  baker-weights 
seem  to  suffer  from  the  common  weak- 
ness of  inexactness,  when  not  under  par- 
ticularly sharp  control. 

The  great  central  Italics,  or  markets, 
serve  as  pantry  for  everything  else  put 
on  the  Parisian  table.  Even  people  from 
the  provinces  and  foreign  countries  come 
to  this  market  and  then  supply  them- 
selves with  the  things  they  lack  at  home. 
England  sends  every  year  for  over  fifty 

THE  BREAD-GIRL.  ° J } J 

millions  of  eggs  from  the  Italics,  besides 
great  quantities  of  butter,  vegetables,  fruits,  and  sometimes 
even  meat.  Russia  has  several  commission  merchants  who 
are  on  the  lookout  for  the  first  peaches,  and  pay  for  them  up  to 
eight  francs  apiece.  The  first  fruits  of  the  season  usually  pass 
through  the  Italics , for  whatever  part  of  the  world  they  may  be 
destined.  It  is  like  an  immense  ant-hill,  where,  day  after  day, 
all  the  year  round,  thousands  of  buyers  and  venders  pass  in  and 
out.  But,  in  spite  of  the  apparent  disorder,  everything  is  man- 
aged with  the  most  perfect  regularity,  being  under  the  double 
control  of  the  Seine  prefecture  and  the  police  prefecture.  The 
first  appoints  the  places  for  the  venders  and  collects  the  taxes  ; 
the  other  enforces  the  rules  and  inspects  the  goods  to  see  that 
nothing  is  sold  in  a state  that  might  injure  people’s  health.  In 
1878  the  wholesale  business  was  exclusively  in  the  hands  of  the 
so-called  facteurs,  whose  number  was  not  allowed  to  exceed  forty. 
This  institution  still  remains,  and  it  is  to  a great  extent  that  which 
makes  the  supply  and  sale  at  the  Italics  so  trustworthy.  The 
former  privilege  of  the  facteurs  has  been  abolished  in  so  far  that 


THE  PARISIAN  CUISINE.  i59 

any  one  can  now  get  the  position  if  he  presents  certain  guaran- 
tees for  his  moral  qualities,  gives  a security  of  ten  thousand  francs, 
and  is  sworn  in  at  the  commercial  court.  The  number  of  facteurs 
has  thereby  risen  to  one  hundred  and  fifty,  and  there  is  enough 
for  all  of  them  to  do. 

The  wholesale  transactions  at  the  halles  have  been  considera- 
bly improved  during  the  last  decennary.  The  great  supplying 


ONE  OF  THE  PAVILIONS  IN  THE  “HALLES  CENTRALES.” 

firms  have  their  own  facteur,  who  keeps  them  posted  on  the  state 
of  the  market,  and  to  him  they  send  their  products  in  greater  or 
smaller  quantities,  according  to  his  advice.  But  a regular  con- 
nection like  this  is  by  no  means  necessary.  A French  peasant 
who  has  some  scores  of  eggs  or  baskets  of  fruits  to  spare  can 
send  them  by  the  first  train,  addressed  to  “ Les  halles  a Paris  " ; 
they  are  sent  to  a facteur , who  sells  them,  and  twenty-four  hours 
after  the  sender  receives  the  profit  of  the  sale,  the  percentage  on 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


160 

the  commission  being  deducted.  It  is  hardly  ever  that  the  con- 
fidence placed  in  the  facteur  is  betrayed.  If  any  complaints  are 
sent  in  to  the  police,  the  matter  is  immediately  investigated,  and 
the  person  complaining  is  generally  found  to  be  in  the  wrong. 
There  is,  for  instance,  the  case  of  the  Algerian  commissioner,  who 
sent  a box  full  of  artichokes  to  the  Italics , but  being  very  busy, 
packed  them  so  badly  that  they  arrived  in  Paris  half  decayed. 
When  inspected  they  were  pronounced  to  be  sea-damaged,  but 
not  spoiled,  and  were  sold  at  auction  for  a mere  trifle.  The  com- 
missioner sent  in  his  complaint  to  the  general  inspector,  the  fac- 
teur s books  were  examined,  and,  being  compared  with  the  regis- 
ters of  the  administration,  it  was  proved  that  the  sale  had  been 
perfectly  legal,  and  that  the  wares  could  not  have  brought  a 
higher  price.  The  sender  was  then  made  acquainted  with  the 
facts,  and  they  were  obliging  enough  to  tell  him  why  his  articles 
had  been  damaged,  and  to  explain  to  him  the  precautions  he  had 
to  observe  in  packing  in  order  to  avoid  a second  accident. 

If  the  supply  is  insufficient,  the  facteur  goes  to  the  provinces, 
or  even  abroad,  to  arrange  for  an  increase.  Thanks  to  these 
efforts,  Paris  can  have  cherries,  apricots,  and  peaches  two  months 
before  any  of  the  fruit  trees  bloom  in  its  immediate  vicinity. 
He  sends  for  fish  from  Scotland  and  Norway,  and  it  is  to  him 
that  the  hunters  send  their  game  from  all  parts  of  Europe.  He 
stands  in  direct  connection  with  all  the  horticulturists  of  the 
neighborhood  of  Paris.  They  bring  him  the  famous  products 
that  are  the  pride  of  the  Italics:  asparagus  from  Argenteuil, 
strawberries  from  Montlery  and  the  Joyeuse  valley,  grapes  from 
Fontainebleau,  the  Montreuil  peach,  cultivated  in  Vincennes, 
Bagnolet,  Montreuil,  Fontenay  and  Nogent ; the  artichokes  from 
the  Saint  Denis  valley,  and  cauliflower  from  the  neighborhood 
of  Poissy,  where  there  grow  on  some  fields  upwards  of  forty 
thousand  heads.  The  products  coming  from  a greater  distance 
reach  him  through  another  commissioner.  Many  orchard  own- 
ers would,  if  they  were  obliged  to  send  off  the  fruit  at  their  own 
risk,  doubtless  prefer  to  let  it  go  to  waste.  The  commissioner, 
therefore,  makes  the  arrangement  with  them  while  the  fruit  is 
still  on  the  tree,  and  has  it  picked  and  packed  down  carefully  in 
his  own  baskets  and  expressed  to  Paris.  The  asparagus  agent  of 
a village  receives  every  day  the  harvest  from  all  the  gardens. 


' LE  CARREAU  DES  HALLES. 


162 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


One  peasant  brings  one  pound,  another  five,  and  a third  ten  ; he 
prepares  the  uniform  bunches  in  which  asparagus  is  always  sold 
in  the  Paris  market,  and  sends  them  to  the  facteur. 

People  cultivating  cabbage,  lettuce,  and  other  vegetables  wait 
till  the  season  comes,  and  then  generally  bring  them  to  Paris  in 
large  wagons  themselves.  The  potato  merchant  carries  on  his 
business  on  a much  larger  scale.  He  may  sometimes  fill  hun- 
dreds of  baggage  cars  with  the  purchase  made  in  the  provinces 
and  abroad.  The  wholesale  business  in  the  halles  is  carried  on 
mainly  by  auction.  The  sale  commences  at  sunrise  in  all  the 
different  galleries  at  the  same  time.  All  the  restaurant  keepers, 
fruit  and  vegetable  dealers,  fishmongers,  grocers,  and  charcutiers 
are  there,  and  so  are  Madame  Angot’s  colleagues,  les  dames  des 
halles , who  have  their  stands  in  the  galleries.  Les  marc  hands  des 
quatre  saisons , the  licensed  venders  who  haunt  the  streets  of 
Paris  at  noon  with  their  little  carts,  are  obliged  to  buy  the  goods 
of  inferior  quality.  They  outbid  each  other,  not  only  in  money 
matters,  but  also  in  noise  and  vulgarity.  The  halles  assume  their 
most  picturesque  aspect  earlier  in  the  day.  The  traffic  in  this 
particular  part  of  the  city  commences  when  it  dies  out  in  all 
other  parts.  At  the  time  when  the  last  carriages  leave  the 
theatres,  the  heavy  wagons  in  which  the  horticulturists  of  the 
neighborhood  bring  their  goods  to  the  halles  begin  to  roll  heavily 
along  the  boulevards.  They  stop  a moment  at  the  small  station- 
houses,  where  they  get  a receipt  for  having  paid  as  many  times 
thirty  centimes  as  the  number  of  square  yards  covered  by  their 
goods,  and  quickly  unpack  these  on  the  carreau,  the  sidewalks 
and  streets  around  the  halles , where  during  the  night  the  greater 
part  of  the  vegetable  sale  takes  place.  No  single  night  passes 
when  less  than  three  thousand  wagons  from  all  the  little  banlieue 
villages  make  their  way  to  le  carreau  des  halles.  In  the  early 
summer  the  number  is  often  double,  and  averages  over  half  a 
million  a year.  When  they  are  unloaded,  they  are  driven  back 
to  the  stations  assigned  them  farther  away,  and  where  the  owner 
has  to  pay  fifty  centimes  to  get  the  police  to  look  after  his  horses 
in  order  that  he  may  use  all  his  time  trying  to  dispose  of  his 
goods  to  the  best  advantage. 

The  peasants  are  the  first  to  arrive,  bringing  turnips,  cabbage 
and  lettuce,  in  immense  wagons,  which  are,  later  on,  used  as  dust- 


THE  PARISIAN  CUISINE. 


163 


man’s  carts  ; for  these  peasants,  called  “ les  boueux ,”  have  made 
a contract  in  which  they  have  taken  upon  themselves  to  collect 
the  sweepings  of  the  streets.  As  soon  as  they  have  left,  their 
places  are  taken  by  others.  The  bags  full  of  peas  and  beans  are 
put  in  the  Rue  des  Halles,  the  potatoes  in  Rue  Pierre  Lescot,  the 
cresses  and  artichokes  outside  of  the  church  of  St.  Eustache,  the 
other  vegetables  and  fruits  in  season  in  the  Rue  Rambuteau. 
The  crowds  grow  denser  and  denser,  the  heaps  of  vegetables 
larger  and  larger.  The  coffee-girls  arrange  their  stands,  the 
peddlers  their  cheap  goods,  and,  chased  by  the  policemen  from 
one  place  to  another,  poor  hungry  wretches  try  to  squeeze 
through  the  crowds  and  pick  up  a few  crumbs  of  all  this  abun- 
dance. 

In  June,  when  the  strawberry  season  is  at  its  height,  the  peas- 
ants must  be  at  their  post  before  nine  in  the  evening  if  they  want 
to  find  a good  place  for  their  goods.  At  this 
time  of  the  year  the  wagons  often  stand  in 
endless  rows  as  far  as  over  to  the  left  bank, 
one  mile  away,  and  even  unto  the  other  side 
of  the  observatory.  The  strawberry  boxes 
cannot  be  put  on  top  of  each  other,  but  have 
to  be  put  side  by  side,  and  the  baskets  stand 
so  near  together  that  the  whole  of  the  Rue 
Turbigo  and  the  Rue  Montorgueuil  look  like 
large  red  ribbons.  On  some  days  people  have 
counted  over  thirty-five  thousand,  each  hold- 
ing an  average  of  sixteen  pounds,  altogether 
over  half  a million  pounds.  On  the  square  the 
things  are  generally  disposed  of  by  regular 
sale,  not  at  auction.  When  a lot  is  bought 
the  buyer  throws  down  a two  sous  piece  for 
“ le  Fort,"  and  a copper  sign  bearing  his  name 
and  the  name  of  his  “ gar deuse."  Le  Fort  de 
la  Halle,  with  his  blue  blouse,  the  broad 
shoulders  and  the  still  broader  white  felt  hat,  is  one  of  the 
most  glorious  Parisian  features.  His  force  has  become  a 
proverb.  He  is  never  received  in  the  profession  without  first 
having  submitted  to  a trial  which  fully  guarantees  that  his 
bodily  strength  comes  up  to  all  the  demands  made  upon  it. 


LE  FORT  DE  LA 
HALLE.  ” 


164 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


His  honesty  is  above  all  suspicion,  and  entirely  regardless  of  the 
fact  that  in  return  for  the  privilege  of  being  the  only  author- 
ized carrier  of  the  halles , he  is  responsiole  for  all  the  goods 
he  transports.  He  brings 
them  from  the  market  to  the 
gardeuse,  who  collects  the 
different  purchases.  When, 
in  the  course  of  time,  he  is 
promoted  to  the  wholesale 
pavilions,  his  yearly  income 
may  rise  to  four  thousand 
francs  and  more,  and  it  is 
still  further  raised  when  he — 
as  is  often  the  case — adds  to 
this  position  the  one  of  scene- 
shifter  at  one  of  the  theaters. 

Besides 


' UNE  DAME  DE  LA  HALLE. 


the  square  and  the  ten  pavilions 
where  the  wholesale  and  retail  business  is  done, 
there  is  still  the  basement  of  the  halles , which 
extend  under  the  whole  market  place.  Here 
the  two  hundred  and  seventy-nine  million  eggs 
yearly  consumed  in  Paris  are  examined,  the 
game  is  dressed  after  the  journey,  and  here  is 
the  residence  of  the  feathered  population,  which 
is  either  sold  alive  or  beheaded  before  the  sale. 
There  has  to  be  a great  deal  of  room,  for  al- 
though they  do  not  stay  there  long,  there  are 
eight  million  pieces  of  poultry  alone  that  come 
and  go  in  the  course  of  the  year.  As  a rule,  the 
doves  are  kept  longer  than  the  other  fowls. 
Many  of  them  have  made  a long  and  trouble- 
some journey,  sometimes  even  over  the  Italian 
Alps,  and  as  they  have  not  had  any  food  on  the 
way,  they  arrive  in  a rather  emaciated  state. 

In  the  basement  under  the  fish  pavilion  live 
the  finny  population,  in  large  basins,  before  it 
is  put  on  the  tables  before  the  fishwives.  The  Parisian  fish- 
woman  has  possibly  lost  some  of  her  self-sufficiency,  and  when 
she  comes  in  collision  with  her  competitors  at  the  next  table,  the 


THE  LITTLE  “ MAR- 
MITON.” 


THE  PARISIAN  CUISINE.  165 

quarrel  hardly  ever  reaches  the  passion  pictured  by  the  writers  of 
former  days.  But  she  is  still  an  important  and  great  personage, 
for  she  sells  yearly  about  seventy  million  pounds  of  fish.  The 
inhabitants  of  the  sea  grow  quite  expensive  before  the  best  of 
them  reach  Paris.  The  salmon,  for  instance,  costs  as  much  as 
five  francs  a pound,  so  that  the  fishwoman  may  easily  end  as  a 
millionaire  if  year  after  year  she  puts  by  any  sort  of  percentage 
of  the  millions  that  pass  through  her  hands.  The  sale  is  cor- 
respondingly large  in  all  the  other  halles  pavilions.  The  repu- 
tation of  Paris  for  being  able  to  serve  the  most  princely  table 
has  been  established  long  ago. 

When  the  little  Marmiton  passes  through  the  street,  the  mere 
sight  of  the  basket  on  his  head  is  enough  to  make  one’s  mouth 
water.  But  this  summer  has  shown  that  the  quantity  can  keep  in 
step  with  the  quality.  In  these  six  months  there  have  been  eaten 
inside  of  the  city  walls  six  million  pounds  of  meat  more  than 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  and  they  have  been  accompanied 
by  thirty  million  extra  bottles  of  wine,  while  there  have  been  used 
two  million  pounds  of  butter  and  twelve  million  bottles  of  beer 
above  the  usual  quantity.  There  is  hardly  another  city  that 
would  not  have  been  considerably  troubled  by  this  increase,  but 
it  was  hardly  felt  in  Paris.  The  guests  of  the  city  were  en- 
tertained with  a luxury  the  like  of  which  they  had  never  seen, 
from  whatever  parts  of  the  world  they  came,  and,  thanks  to  the 
central  halles , Paris  will  in  this  respect  always  be  up  to  the  de- 
mands made  upon  it,  however  Eiffel-tower  high  they  may  be. 


XVI. 

The  Water  Supply. 


ARISIANS  claim  that  first  in 
the  line  of  things  that 
are  their  pride  and  glory 
come  the  two  rivers,  the 
Seine  and  the  Marne. 
They  are  as  attached  to 
them  as  the  sailor  to  the 
sea,  and  each  and  all  are 
deeply  persuaded  that  no 
water  in  the  world  is  as 
beautiful  as  that  which 
flows  through  their  city. 
Even  the  stranger,  after 
having  spent  some  time 
on  these  banks,  is  apt  to 
agree  with  them.  Wher- 
ever one  goes,  these  green 
river  banks,  with  their 
pretty  little  villas,  give  the 
landscape  an  air  of  luxu- 
rious comfort.  They  are 
a continual  source  of  pleasure  to  the  greater  part  of  the  peo- 
ple, for  whom  amusements  must  be  cheap  to  be  at  all  attain- 
able. The  Seine  and  Marne  are  always  ready  to  open  their 
arms  for  the  canotiers ; every  man  who  has  a few  sous  to  hire 
a boat  can  spend  the  whole  Sunday  rocking  to  and  fro  or 
boat-racing  as  much  as  he  pleases,  while  he  enjoys  the  sun- 
light and  good  company,  and  the  easy  comfort  of  shirt-sleeves. 
When  evening  comes  the  flotilla  anchors  near  the  village  inn 
and  the  company  club  together,  and  with  a goose  and  a petit 


1 66 


THE  WATER  SUPPLY. 


167 


bleu  from  Suresnes,  enjoy  life  as  one  can  only  enjoy  it  under 
a Parisian  sky.  To  the  Parisians,  who  are  of  a more  quiet  tem- 
perament, the  rivers  offer  their  fish,  or  at  least  the  fish  supposed 
to  be  under  their  blue  waves.  There 
is  no  place  where  one  can  sit  more 
patiently  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
waiting  for  the  exciting  moment  of 
the  bite,  than  on  these  banks  : for 
here  the  fish  understand  the  art  of 
keeping  one  in  constant  anticipa- 
tion. All  honor  be  to  the  two  rivers 
that  make  Paris  so  beautiful  and 
joyous  a place.  Good  health,  how- 
ever, would 
hardly  b e 
among  the 
things  they 
would  bring 
the  Paris- 
ians, if,  be- 
sides  the 
other  ser- 
vices they 
r e n d e r , 
they  had 
t o quench 
their  thirst. 

People  have 
had  sad  ex- 
periences in 

this  respect,  when  not  more  than  a generation  ago  the  Paris- 
ians drank  no  other  water.  The  quantity  of  Seine  water  with 
which  the  machines  at  Auteuil  and  Chaillot  supplied  the  higher 
and  less  favorably  situated  quarters  of  the  town  was  hardly  suffi- 
cient. The  lower  and  newer  parts  were  supplied  from  the  Ourcq 
canal.  As  a canal,  this  may  be  excellent.  At  the  little  town  of 
Montreuil  it  forms  a continuation  of  the  river  Ourcq,  that  comes 
from  the  Aisne  department,  and  later  joins  the  Marne.  Whatever 
it  may  be  as  a canal,  it  is  not  very  suitable  for  an  acqueduct. 


PARISIANS  OF  A MORE  QUIET  TEMPERAMENT. 


i68 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


The  Villette  basin,  always  filled  with  boats  on  which  many 
sailor  families  have  their  permanent  abode,  is  remarkable  for 
anything  but  cleanliness.  It  was  from  this  basin  that  the  water 
was  sent  by  underground  mains  to  the  Parisian  houses— where, 
on  account  of  the  deficient  pressure,  it  only  reached  to  the  first 
story.  The  water  carrier  brought  it  to  the  public  institutions 
with  the  miserably  sounding  cry  of  “ A l’eau  ! a l’eau  ! ” that  was 
heard  in  the  streets  up  to  a few  years  ago.  One  thousand  litres 
were  furnished  by  the  water  supply  company  for  one  franc  and 
sold  again  for  five  by  the  carriers.  It  was,  after  all,  a poor  busi- 
ness when  one  takes  into  consideration  the  high,  narrow  stairs 
by  which  they  had  to  carry  their  pails,  and  it  was  a drink  that 
would  now  be  considered  a horror  of  horrors.  People  seem, 
nevertheless,  to  have  been  quite  satisfied  with  it  at  the  time. 
First,  in  1850,  they  began  to  see  that  it  was  perhaps  not  as  per- 
fect as  might  be  desired.  The  cholera  raged  in  the  greater  part 
of  France  ; and  Paris,  that  had  been  so  cruelly  visited  in  1832  and 
1849,  saw  with  terror  the  epidemic  concentrate  in  the  poorer 
quarters.  It  was  then  insisted  upon  that  something  should  be 
done  to  improve  these  places.  For  a long  time  nothing  was 
accomplished,  but  with  the  growing  danger  the  man  who  was 
capable  of  preventing  it  stepped  forth. 

The  great  Seine-prefect,  Baron  Haussmann,  and  his  engineers, 
marked  out  the  broad  boulevards  that  broke  through  the  filthy, 
crowded  old  Paris,  and  entirely  changed  the  looks  of  the  city. 
At  the  same  time  others  had  charge  of  the  still  more  important 
water  question.  Haussmann’s  proposal  met  at  first  with  serious 
opposition.  The  directors  of  the  public  works  declaredtheOurcq 
canal  water  excellent  for  cooking,  when  it  was  properly  filtered, 
and  everybody  thought  it  foolish  to  force  the  Parisian  landlords 
to  put  in  water-pipes,  even  in  the  upper  stories.  Haussmann 
was,  fortunately,  accustomed  to  overthrow  what  others  consid- 
ered impossibilities.  He  communicated  with  Belgrand,  the 
ingenious  engineer  to  whom  we  owe  the  present  Parisian  water 
works,  and  these  two  men  seemed  made  to  understand  each 
other.  Already,  in  their  first  conference,  Belgrand  called 
Haussmann’s  attention  to  the  gypseous  earth  found  everywhere 
in  the  Parisian  suburbs,  and  which  would  spoil  the  spring  water 
so  that  it  would  be  necessary  to  get  their  supply  farther  away, 


THE  WATER  SUPPLY. 


1^9 

and  at  great  expense.  A few  months  later  the  plan  was  fully 
prepared,  the  municipal  council  granted  the  necessary  money, 
and  the  work  commenced  immediately.  One  of  the  most  impor- 
tant parts  of  Belgrand’s  task  was  the  division  he  made  in  the 
supply.  The  city  being  situated  a considerable  distance  from 
any  great  heights,  he  saw  that  it  would  be  very  expensive,  if  not 
absolutely  impossible,  to  supply  it  with  so  much  spring  water 
that  it  would  suffice  for  public  uses,  such  as  watering  the  streets, 
or  for  the  monumental  fountains,  etc.  He  decided,  therefore,  to 
discriminate  between  the  cases  where  the  quality  of  the  water 
was  of  no  especial  importance,  and  those  where  it  had  to  be 
absolutely  pure  ; and  it  was  this  division  that  made  his  plan  suc- 
ceed. 

Paris  has  now  two  entirely  separate  aqueducts  : one  supplies 
all  the  water  necessary  for  street  cleanliness  and  for  most  indus- 
trial purposes,  such  as  the  washing  and  watering  of  gardens, 
stables,  yards,  carriage  houses,  etc.,  the  other  supplies  the  pri- 
vate houses  and  a few  business  places,  where  pure  water  is 
needed,  as,  for  instance,  cafes , restaurants,  factories  for  ice  and 
different  drinks,  and  elevators  where  the  pressure  must  be  great. 
Paris  has  enough  for  her  toilet,  or  at  least  more  than  any  other 
modern  city,  and  for  this  the  Ourcq  canal  and  the  Seine  are  used 
now,  as  formerly.  But  the  aqueducts  have  been  considerably 
extended  and  improved  since  1850.  The  Marne  has  also  been 
used  to  supply  the  northern  quarters  through  the  excellent  Saint 
Maur  works,  and  even  if  perfection  has  not  yet  been  attained, 
the  city  can,  if  an  unusually  tropical  summer  does  not  destroy 
all  calculations,  at  any  time  be  washed  and  cleaned,  have  her 
streets,  promenades,  drives,  and  parks  watered,  and  have  her 
fountains  flow  abundantly,  that  she  may  show  herself  at  her  best, 
and  it  must  be  added  that  she  is  not  only  able  to  do  it,  but 
really  does  it.  There  are  distributed  all  over  the  city  seven 
thousand  faucets,  exclusively  used  for  the  street  cleaning;  forty- 
five  thousand  more  to  which  the  army  of  workmen  whose  duty  it 
is  to  water  the  boulevards  and  avenues  only  need  to  fasten  a hose 
to  send  out  freshness  and  coolness,  and  destroy  each  little  speck 
of  dust  about  to  lift  itself  from  the  green  promenades,  and  not 
less  than  five  hundred  fountains  are  in  continual  use  week-days 
and  Sundays  also. 


170 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


The  result  is  that,  with  the  exception  of  a few  especial  cases, 
Paris  is  always  in  a state  of  matchless  freshness  and  cleanliness. 
In  regard  to  the  drinking  water,  Belgrand  used  an  entirely  new 
arrangement.  At  one  hundred  and  seventy-three  kilometres’ 
distance  from  Paris  he  took  the  Vanne  to  lead  it  into  the  city, 
and  at  one  hundred  and  thirty  kilometres’  distance  the  Dhuys, — 
a little  afflux  of  the  Surmelin,  that  later  on  joins  the  Marne 


m p . vs 

1 

mSsma 

ffilp 

WATERING  THE  CHAMPS-ELYSEES. 


between  Chateau-Thierry  and  Dormans.  Its  main  source  is  at  a 
height  of  fifty  metres,  and  it  is  this  very  water  that  is  sent  to 
Paris.  The  aqueduct  passes  through  twenty  kilometres  of 
valley, — ground  at  some  places  seventy  mbtres  deep, — but 
instead  of  the  large  Roman  arcades,  he  preferred  to  use  mainly 
iron  pipes,  and  the  aqueduct  is  for  the  greater  part  underground. 
The  picturesqueness  of  the  landscape  may  have  lost  by  it,  but 
so  much  was  saved  by  this  arrangement  that  before  the  end  of 
the  sixties  they  were  able  to  complete  the  works  over  the  Dhuys, 
and  the  much  more  difficult  ones  over  the  Vanne.  The  last  has 


THE  WATER  SUPPLY. 


171 

its  source  fourteen  kilometres  west  of  Troyes,  and  joins  about 
sixty  kilometres  farther  away  the  Yonne,  at  Sens.  Its  waters 
do  not,  like  those  of  the  Dhuys,  come  from  one  source,  but  from 
many  different  ones  in  the  departments  of  the  Aube  and  the 
Yonne,  and  at  many  places  it  was  necessary  to  use  arcades. 
When  it  reaches  Paris  the  water  is  kept  in  the  reservoirs  near  the 
Parc  Montsouris,  on  the  left  bank,  while  the  Dhuys  has  another 
on  the  left  bank,  as  the  water  cannot  be  sent  to  houses  as  soon  as 
it  comes  into  town,  the  consumption  not  being  as  regular  and  con- 
stant as  the  supply.  It  is  also  necessary  to  have  a reserve  in  case 
the  supply  should  cease,  and  the  reservoirs  have  therefore  been 
built  very  large.  Those  at  Menilmontant  cover  two  hectares,  and 
hold  ten  thousand  cubic  metres  of  water  ; that  is,  over  one  hun- 
dred million  litres.  The  dimensions  of  those  at  the  Parc  Mont- 
souris are  twice  as  great  again,  more  than  half  of  Paris  being  sup- 
plied with  Vanne  water.  The  sight  is  imposing.  You  see 
around  you  a forest  of  columns, — in  the  Menilmontant  reservoir 
are  about  a thousand — that  carry  a vault  seventy-five  centimetres 
thick,  covered  with  fifty  centimetres  of  green  sward.  This  system 
is  excellent ; it  keeps  the  water  perfectly  fresh  and  uninfluenced 
by  any  changes  in  the  atmosphere.  This  was  proved  very  effect- 
ually during  the  siege.  The  Menilmontant  reservoir  remained 
full  even  after  the  Prussians  had  broken  off  the  main  just  outside 
of  Paris,  and  it  was  decided  to  keep  this  supply  in  case  of  neces- 
sity. The  temperature  was  very  low,  and  fell  on  the  29th  of 
December,  1870,  and  January  5,  1871,  eleven  centigrades  below 
zero,  but  the  water  still  held  six  degrees. 

It  was  an  excellent  idea  of  Belgrand  to  put  the  pipes,  that 
lead  the  water  from  the  reservoirs  through  the  town,  in  the  great 
drains.  This  has  made  it  possible  to  examine  the  whole  net- 
work and  stop  all  leaks  in  good  time,  not  to  speak  of  the  great 
economy  that  is  attained  in  the  preservation  and  renovation  of  the 
materials.  Laid  end  to  end,  all  the  mains  would  form  a line  two 
million  metres  long.  When  to  this  is  added  the  Vannes  and  the 
Dhuys  aqueducts,  there  would  be  needed  a canal-work  of  about 
300  miles  to  supply  Paris  with  drinking-water.  The  quality 
of  the  water  from  the  Vanne  and  the  Dhuys  could  not  be  better, 
but  the  worst  is  that  it  does  not  always  suffice  for  all  the  inhab- 
itants. When  the  summer  heat  comes  it  may  happen  that  the 


PARTS  OF  TO-DAY. 


1 12 


reservoirs  are  emptied,  and  it  is  once  more  the  Seine  water  that 
flows  from  the  Fontaines  Wallace — which  an  English  philanthro- 
pist has  placed  in  the  Parisian  streets  according  to  the  Oriental 
custom, — and  from  all  the  house-pipes  in  some  quarters  of  the 
town.  This  calamity  generally  visits  all  the  quarters  in  turn, 
so  that  it  is  only  for  some  days,  at  the  utmost  a couple  of 

weeks,  that  one 
of  them  suffers 
from  it.  But 
however  short 
the  time  may 
be,  it  is  always 
too  long,  and 
the  hygienic 
statistics  have 
proved  that  an 
interregnum  of 
this  kind  is  al- 
ways followed 
by  typhus  fever 
or  other  epi- 
demic. 

The  Parisian 
water-  supply 
can,  therefore, 
not  be  said  to 
b e absolutely 
exemplary,  and 

A WALLACE  FOUNTAIN.  WG1  ^ 

been  done  on  a 

granderand  more  perfect  scale  than  in  the  French  capital.  Under 
Nero,  Rome  had  a million  inhabitants,  and  a daily  supply  of 
between  eight  hundred  thousand  and  nine  hundred  thousand 
cubic  inches  of  water.  Paris  has  nowon  an  average  two  and  one- 
half  million  inhabitants,  and  receives  only  one  hundred  and 
thirty  thousand  cubic  mbtres  of  spring  water  a day. 


XVII. 

Parisian  Dinners. 


Money  has 

expelled  the 
old  French  esprit 
from  the  salons. 
The  yoke  of  gold 
tyranny  in  Paris  is 
simply  an  interreg- 
num, without  any 
firm  roots  ; an  ex- 
traneous despot- 
ism that  will  be 
shaken  off  when 
the  new  demo- 
cracy is  definitely 
formed.  The  exiled  will  once  more  make  its  entry  on  its  old 
domains.  These  are  too  closely  connected  to  be  separated  for 
any  length  of  time ; the  proscription  does  not  even  mean  a com- 
plete disappearance ; although  banished  from  the  salon  the 
exiled  esprit  yet  reigns  in  the  dining-room. 

The  Parisians  have  always  understood  the  art  of  arranging  a 
dinner-table  better  than  anybody  else,  and  however  great  the 
degeneration  of  social  life  may  be  in  all  other  respects,  in  this 
art  they  are  still  the  masters.  To  dine  is,  for  a Parisian,  not 
merely  a physical  obligation  ; it  is  not  far  from  being  a cult. 
He  never  dines  till  late,  when  he  is  done  with  business,  and  he 
does  not  allow  anything  or  anybody  to  disturb  him,  “ Monsieur 
dine  ” means  that  monsieur  has  retired  to  the  holiest  of  holies  of 
private  life,  and  his  perfect  devotion  there  cannot  be  questioned. 
Whatever  may  happen  on  the  globe  is  nothing  to  him  while  he 
is  at  table  ; no  interest  is  so  tempting,  no  possible  profit  so 
alluring  that  it  can  disturb  him  during  the  quiet  hour.  It  is 


173 


174 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


when  he  has  finished  his  dessert  that  he  belongs  to  the  world 
once  more.  He  consequently  never  invites  any  but  his  most 
intimate  friends  to  dinner.  If  he  wants  to  show  some  one,  that 
can  be  of  use  to  him,  a favor  beyond  the  soiree  invitations,  or  if 
he  feels  under  obligation  to  be  especially  courteous  to  some  for- 
eigner, it  is  always  the  same,  “ Come  and  take  dtjeuner  a la  four- 
chette  with  me.”  This  is  at  twelve,  and  is  like  the  half-past  seven 
o’clock  dinner,  with  the  exception  of  the  soup.  One  might  have 
one’s  tailor  at  this  meal,  if  one  wanted  to  postpone  paying  a bill ; 
as  it  is  of  no  special  importance,  both  host  and  guest  understand 
fully  that  their  relation  still  is  that  of  business.  But  a business 
dinner  is  beyond  a Parisian’s  comprehension.  He  would  look 
upon  it  as  a desecration  of  his  household  gods.  When  the  soup 
is  put  on  the  table,  he  is  among  friends.  He  takes,  moreover, 
great  care  that  all  the  guests  should  be  as  intimate  with  each 
other  as  he  is  with  them.  This  may,  of  course,  be  rather  difficult 
to  provide  for  at  the  present  day,  when  political  parties  are  as 
sharply  opposed  to  each  other  as  personal  enemies  ; but  people 
are  in  this  respect  true  to  the  old  traditions,  and  prefer  having  a 
small  and  select  circle. 

The  dining-room  is  small,  and  when  the  guests  reach  the 
number  of  the  muses,  it  is  considered  quite  a large  party. 
The  rest  of  the  acquaintances  come  after  dinner,  and  this  is  a 
custom  that  is  so  deeply  rooted  that  nobody  thinks  of  feeling 
hurt  because  he  is  only  invited  to  the  salon.  For  a small  circle 
such  as  this,  one  exerts  one’s  self  to  the  utmost.  Even  an  ordi- 
nary Parisian  dinner  is  never  without  a certain  style,  and  the 
workmen  who  take  their  dinner  outside  of  the  little  suburban 
inns  follow  all  the  traditions.  The  quality  may  be  very  inferior, 
but  the  menu  is  always  correct.  If  they  can  afford  to  dine  at  all 
they  must  have  a soup,  meat,  vegetables,  and,  beyond  all,  their 
dessert  and  wine.  They  would  look  upon  it  as  an  offense  against 
their  dignity  if  any  of  these  courses  were  omitted.  It  is  not 
hereby  to  be  understood  that  Parisians  set  a better  table  than 
other  nations.  On  the  contrary,  it  may  not  be  as  good,  or  as 
wholesome  as  a simple  dinner  of  pork  and  beans  ; but  there  is  a 
certain  style  about  it,  and  that  is  what  they  want  beyond  all 
else.  In  the  higher  classes,  where  they  are  able  to  let  the  quality 
go  hand  in  hand  with  the  style  of  the  menu , they  reach,  at  times, 


PARISIAN  DINNERS. 


175 


with  their  inborn  good  taste,  a culinary  result  which  only  a true 
Parisian  is  capable  of  obtaining.  He  has  a thorough  knowledge 
of  the  mystery  of  those  trifles  that  make  the  table  artistic. 
However  long  the  dinner  may  be,  there  is  never  an  overloading 
of  dishes,  no  brutal  mixing  of  wines,  no  pretentiousness  that 
makes  itself  felt  and  creates  stiffness  and  ceremoniousness  among 
the  guests.  There  is  over  everything  an  air  of  easy  elegance, 
light  as  perfume,  that  excites  Vesprit.  No  speeches  are  made 
as  in  the  old  salons. 

Once  outside  of  the  dining-room,  they  must  meet  the  inevi- 
table crowd  and  the  hackneyed  omnibus  conversation,  and  the 
Parisian — that  is,  the  elite  Parisian, — loves  the  causerie.  This 
has  from  olden  times  been  the  greatest  of  his  social  talents,  and 
it  is  not  yet  forgotten.  It  has  only,  like  all  aristocracy,  been 
obliged  to  limit  its  domains.  At  the  dinner-table  this  art  is  still 
cultivated, — for  it  is  indeed  an  art,  and  the  most  truly  Parisian 
of  all, — and  for  this  very  reason  the  dinner-table  is  the  Parisian’s 
strong  point.  His  need  of  its  quiet  intimacy  and  unpretending 
eloquence,  as  contrasted  with  the  gold  glitter  that  money  has 
thrown  over  social  life,  has  gradually  given  rise  to  an  institution 
that  has  become  of  great  importance  in  Parisian  life.  This  is 
the  so-called  diners  mensuels , — the  meetings  of  small,  exclusive 
circles,  the  members  of  which  are  united  on  account  of  personal 
sympathy  and  mutual  interest.  They  meet  once  a month  in  a 
quiet  room  in  some  restaurant,  where  they  enjoy  this  dinner 
together,  and,  under  the  observance  of  certain  ceremonies,  culti- 
vate the  old  causerie  art.  These  dinners  were  originally  the 
invention  of  a few  literary  and  artistic  circles,  but  they  met  with 
so  great  a success  that  their  number  of  late  years  has  been 
legion,  and  they  now  comprise,  if  not  all  classes,  at  least  all 
Paris  that  counts  for  anything.  It  is  just  as  impossible  for  a 
Parisian  of  any  social  standing  not  to  belong  to  a “ diner ,”  as  it  is 
for  a “ Boulevardier  ” not  to  belong  to  a “ cerclel'  Even  the  most 
prominent  men  do  not  despise  this  oasis  in  the  social  desert. 
The  Diner  Bixio  brings  together  at  one  table  Alexandre  Dumas, 
Sardou,  Legouv6,  Labiche,  and  Meissonnier,  diplomatists  like 
Nigra,  the  former  Italian  ambassador  to  France,  and  function- 
aries such  as  Perrin,  the  director  of  the  Theatre  Frangais.  The 
plan  of  these  meetings  originated,  it  is  said,  with  the  Diner  Tay- 


176 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


lor,  now  the  Diner  Dentu,  and  it  serves  still  as  an  example  of 
how  these  dinners  came  into  existence. 

The  great  Maecenas,  Baron  Taylor,  had  several  times  given 
a dinner  at  Bonvallet’s,  on  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  one  of 
the  best  restaurants  in  Paris,  for  a number  of  authors,  who,  in 
the  course  of  the  year,  returned  these  invitations  and  gave  a 
dinner  at  the  same  place  to  the  Baron,  and  all  the  guests  he 
usually  invited.  Every  time,  Baron  Taylor  opened  the  conversa- 
tion by  telling  some  adventure  from  his  long  and  eventful  life, 
and  his  great  story-telling  talent  formed  these  recollections  into 
artistic  little  novels,  all  possessing  a point  which  was  discussed 
at  table  with  the  comment  to  which  it  gave  rise.  This  was  so 
enjoyable  that  it  was  decided  to  meet  regularly  once  a month  on 
an  appointed  day.  Every  one  was  to  pay  for  his  own  cover,  and 
the  by-laws  were  laid  down,  the  breaking  of  which  involved  cer- 
tain fines  that  were  used  later  on  for  some  common  purpose  that 
benefited  the  whole  circle.  No  new  member  was  to  be  admitted 
if  his  membership  was  not  universally  approved,  and  each  one 
was  in  turn  obliged  to  write  down  one  of  the  Baron’s  narratives, 
that  they,  when  the  collection  was  complete,  might  be  published 
under  the  title  “ Les  Diners  du  Baron  Taylor ,”  by  the  publisher 
Dentu,  who  was  a member,  from  the  very  first,  and  later  became 
the  president  of  the  circle.  The  realization  of  this  plan  was 
delayed,  first  by  Taylor’s  and  later  by  Dentu’s  death,  but  from 
time  to  time  some  of  these  stories  have  appeared  in  the  Revue 
des  deux  Mondes,  and  other  magazines.  Paul  de  Musset  wrote 
“ Les  Dents  d'un  Turco"\  Paul  Feval,  “ Gavotte"  ; Elie  Berthet, 
“ Lais  et  Samson Hector  Malet,  “Gonzalez.”  Enault  and 
Claretie  added  to  the  number,  and  they  are  still  working  on  com- 
pleting the  collection.  The  well-known  novel  collection,  “ Les 
Soirees  de  Medan ,”  came  into  existence  at  a dinner  of  this  kind, 
“ Le  Boeuf  Nature ,”  which,  under  Zola’s  presidency,  united  the 
staff  of  his  more  or  less  talented  disciples.  The  dinner  cercle 
“ Les  Tctes  de  Bois,”  presided  over  by  Paul  Arenes,  and  including 
both  authors  and  artists,  has  through  Charpentier,  who  is  also  a 
member,  published  two  editions  de  luxe  of  “ Nouvelles  a 1' eau 
forte''  illustrated  with  charming  drawings  and  engravings. 

It  is  not  unusual  that  the  dinner,  aside  from  the  pleasure  that 
it  affords  the  members,  shows  itself  fruitful  in  outward  results. 


PARISIAN  DINNERS. 


177 


The  dinner  “ Les  Rigoberts," — the  most  prominent  members  of 
which  were  the  artists, — Vibert,  Detaille,  Worms,  Berne,  Belle- 
court,  Duez  and  Leloir, — has  brought  forth  the  yearly  exhibition 
of  French  water-colors,  which  competes  with  the  Salon  in  the  in- 
terest it  awakens.  The  taste  for  amateur  theatricals,  which  of  late 
years  have  become  a mania  and  are  quite  frequently  performed 


PRIVATE  THEATRICALS. — BEHIND  THE  SCENES. 


with  extraordinary  talent,  is  proved  to  have  originated  with  the 
sensational  performances  of  the  diner  Arche  de  Noe."  This 
is  one  of  the  greatest  clubs  of  the  kind,  headed  by  Paul  Derou- 
lede,  the  composer  Saint-Saens,  the  dramatic  writer  Paul  Ter- 
rier, the  sculptor  Leroux,  and  the  Coquelins.  It  has  united 
a number  of  artists  of  all  branches,  and  counts  several  members 
of  the  aristocracy.  They  commenced  by  meeting  at  Janodet's, 
in  the  Palais  Royal,  and  called  themselves  “ trop  serrtfs,"  but  in 


178 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


a few  years  they  found  these  quarters  entirely  too  small.  At  the 
same  time  the  name  was  changed,  and  the  circle  was,  on  account 
of  the  many  different  elements  it  comprised,  baptized  l' Arche  de 
Not.  It  was  decided  that  this  baptism  should  be  celebrated  by 
theatricals,  and  a committee  was  appointed,  which,  in  a few  days, 
wrote  the  great  fantastical  tragedy,  “ Abraham,  or  the  Patriarch 
who  Deceives  his  Wife,”  which  was  played  at  the  house  of  one 
of  the  rich  members  and  created  a decided  sensation  among  the 
select  audience  assembled.  It  was  soon  followed  by  others  ; the 
ladies  who  were  acquainted  with  the  members  studied  their 
parts  under  the  guidance  of  the  Coquelins,  and  stars  were  discov- 
ered who  continued  their  work  alone. 

Compatriotism  on  a small  scale  has  become  the  bond  of  uni- 
son of  many  of  these  dinners.  The  people  from  Provence  have 
“ La  Cigale  ” ; those  from  Burgundy  “ Les  Bourguignons,”  with 
the  former  Finance  Minister,  now  president  of  the  Bank  of 
France,  Magnin,  as  president  ; the  people  from  Normandy,  “ La 
Pomme,”  the  most  famous  of  all  these  dinners.  Every  summer 
the  cigaliers  and  the pommiers  make  excursions  to  their  respective 
provinces,  where  they  are  met  with  a procession  of  all  the  govern- 
ment officers,  and  where  there  are  arranged  in  their  honor  great 
festivals,  to  which  all  the  people  of  the  department  come  in 
crowds.  There  is  no  end  of  torchlight  processions,  bull-fights, 
and  farandolas  in  Provence,  and  of  cider  banquets  in  Normandy. 
But  the  most  important  part  of  the  festival  is  a romantic  tourna- 
ment in  the  old  Troubadour  style,  with  prizes  given  to  the  con- 
queror by  the  handsomest  lady  present.  The  province  has, 
through  these  excursions,  come  to  look  upon  their  compatriots’ 
diner  as  a sort  of  protecting  representative,  to  whom  they  always 
apply  where  some  great  interest  is  concerned,  and  it  has  not  un- 
frequently  been  seen  that  the  cigaliers  and  the  pommiers  have 
taken  the  lead  in  the  construction  of  a canal  and  the  building  of 
a harbor  or  a railroad.  The  members  at  these  dinners  are  neces- 
sarily quite  numerous,  and  in  this  respect  they  differ  from  the 
original  dinner,  which  only  comprised  a limited  number.  L' Hip- 
popotame  may  serve  as  a good  example.  It  unites  those  who 
have  formerly  received  the  prix  de  Rome , and  has  taken  its  name 
from  a little  hostry  near  the  Colosseum  which  it  is  necessary  to 
have  visited  in  order  to  be  received  as  a member.  Another  in- 


PARISIAN  DINNERS. 


i70 


stance  is  the  “diner  de  la  Critique ,”  to  which  Sarcey,  Vitu,  Fou- 
quier,  Weiss,  and  Daudet  belong,  and  where  the  number  of  the 
members  is  not  allowed  to  exceed  twenty.  But  whether  large  or 
small,  Elie  Berthet’s  words  about  the  Dentu  dinner  seem  to  suit 
them  all.  There  reigns,  he  says,  the  most  open  and  sincere  cor- 
diality and  exquisite  politeness  which,  however,  does  not  pre- 
vent wit  and  merriment  from  manifesting  itself  freely.  There 
has,  even  between  the  members  who  have  clear  and  decided  opin- 
ions on  most  things,  never  been  any  bitter  discussions  and  never 


THE  ‘ ‘ RIEUSES  ” CLUB. 


a word  been  said  that  might  hurt  anybody.  It  is  like  a bee 
drawing  in  its  sting  and  only  offering  its  honey.  But  there  is 
also  good  care  taken  in  choosing  new  members  and  great  weight 
is  laid  on  the  sociable  character  of  the  candidate  in  question,  as 
one  single  man  of  a noisy  or  a quarreling  disposition  would  dis- 
turb the  perfect  harmony  of  these  meetings. 

This  institution  has  had  one  great  drawback,  namely,  the  ex- 
clusion of  ladies ; but  there  is  a possibility  that  this  may  be 
corrected  in  time.  There  has  already  been  founded  Le  diner 
des  Rieuses,  a circle  of  actresses,  who,  in  order  that  they  may 
once  in  a while  get  rid  of  the  tyranny  of  the  manager  and  be 


i8o 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


able  to  laugh  and  amuse  themselves  at  liberty,  have  founded  a 
diner  like  all  the  others.  They  meet  once  a month  at  Durand’s, 
have  very  severe  by-laws,  and  a managing  committee  appointed 
according  to  all  parliamentary  rules.  Every  president,  and 
there  is  a new  one  at  each  dinner,  must,  when  she  takes  her  seat, 
sing  a song  written  and  composed  by  herself,  and  every  new 
member  must  deliver  an  inaugural  speech,  which  is  carefully 
taken  down  and  kept  in  the  archives.  It  is  forbidden  to  talk  of 
any  man  or  even  mention  his  name  during  the  dinner,  and  the 
one  who  breaks  this  law  has  to  pay  to  the  president  a fine  in 
cash  which  is  raised  for  each  repetition  of  the  offense.  The 
treasury  of  the  members  is,  in  this  way,  always  in  a thriving 
state,  and  to  celebrate  the  opening  of  it  with  due  solemnity,  it 
has  been  decided  to  break  the  bans  laid  on  the  other  sex  once 
a year,  and  tolerate  their  presence  at  a ball;  which  is  undoubt- 
edly the  one  to  which  admission  is  most  eagerly  sought.  It  is  not 
to  be  denied  that  the  members  do  not  all  belong  to  high  life, 
but  they  have  already,  in  so  many  points,  learned  to  follow  the 
fashion  of  “the  other,”  that  it  would  be  strange  if  the  glory  that 
shines  around  the  diner  des  rieuses  should  not  tempt  imitation. 
If  first  the  ladies  have  their  dinners  like  those  of  their  husbands 
and  brothers,  the  two  will  soon  be  united.  This  may  be  the 
dawn  of  a complete  revolution  in  Parisian  sociability,  and  a form 
of  intercourse  may  arise  that  will  be  in  keeping  with  the  demo- 
cratic times.  When  the  “ million  ” is  dethroned,  the  old  esprit 
will  return ; the  revolution  of  the  Parisian  dinners  will  bring  it 
back  in  triumph  from  its  banishment. 


V 


XVII. 

Soirees. 


T 


'HE  Parisian  soirees  of  the  day 
fall  in  two  great  divisions,  the 
open  and  the  closed.  There  is  that 
difference  between  them,  that  it  is 
almost  necessary  to  have  an  invitation 
to  the  closed  ones,  where  champagne 
is  served,  but  perfectly  superfluous  to 
have  anything  but  a visiting-card  for 
the  open  ones,  where,  however,  the 
champagne  is  omitted.  Musset’s  re- 
mark that  when  one  receives,  it  is  the 
whole  of  Paris,  the  city  as  well  as 
the  suburbs,  that  is  welcomed,  might 
now  be  greatly  extended  ; to-day  one 
receives  people  from  the  provinces  and 
abroad  as  well.  A stranger  visiting 
Paris  for  the  first  time,  believing  in 
the  old  tradition  of  P'rench  courtesy  and  graciousness,  would  be 
greatly  disappointed  ; he  will  find  a city  where  it  is  necessary  to 
elbow  one’s  way  at  every  step.  But  in  one  respect  he  will  be 
agreeably  surprised:  the  reports  of  the  exclusiveness  of  French 
social  life  will  not  be  confirmed  ; he  may,  after  a fortnight’s 
stay,  return  to  his  provincial  hole,  and,  if  it  satisfies  his  ambition 
to  do  so,  astonish  the  natives  by  telling  them  that  he  has  been 
at  the  soirees  of  the  most  prominent  men  in  France.  All  that 
is  required  is  a dress  suit,  a white  necktie,  an  opera  hat,  and  a 
copy  of  the  Journal  Officiel.  The  reason  is  obvious.  When, 
after  the  summer  months  and  the  hunting  season,  tout  Paris 
returns  to  the  city  most  dutifully,  the  winter  season  is  ushered  in 
with  a number  of  open  soirees  by  the  ministers,  both  the  police 
and  the  Seine  prtfets,  the  chairmen  of  the  Chamber  and  Senate, 

181 


182 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  V. 


and  other  government  officials.  These  open  soirees,  that  are 
continued  till  after  the  grand  prix  races,  are  in  reality  open  for 
everybody,  Parisians,  provincials,  and  foreigners  alike.  A notice 
in  the  Journal  Officiel  states  that  Mr.  So  and  So  receives  on  such 
and  such  an  evening,  and  the  invitations  are  thereby  sent  out 
and  extend  to  all  who  care  to  accept  them.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  put  on  an  evening  suit,  give  one’s  card  to  the  valet,  and  mix 
in  the  crowd  in  the  salon  to  be  in  the  company  of  Gr6vy,  Jules 
Ferry,  Freycinet,  Brisson,  or  any  other  of  the  prominent  men  of 
the  country,  who  at  the  time  are  living  in  the  public  palais , and 
to  be  surrounded  by  ladies  and  gentlemen  whose  names  every- 
body knows. 

Before  the  present  democratic  era,  the  plan  of  making  the 
salons  officiels  a continuation  of  the  street  was  not  carried  out 
as  thoroughly  as  now.  Only  the  journalists  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  being  admitted  on  the  mere  presentation  of  their  cards;  the 
rest  of  the  company  had  to  possess  a formal  invitation  ; this  was 
certainly  not  very  difficult  to  procure  during  the  Empire  and  the 
Directory,  but  after  all,  it  had  to  be  procured.  People  could  not, 
when  they  were  through  dinner  and  did  not  care  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  in  the  absence  of  other  means  to  make  the  time  pass, 
drive  to  some  minister’s  soiree.  This  is  a convenience  that  is 
the  result  of  earnest  efforts  to  democratize  society,  it  is  said,  but 
the  reason  may  perhaps  be  found  in  something  else,  called  dura 
necessitas.  When  the  pre'fet  from  some  province  or  other,  or  the 
little  lawyer  without  a brief,  is  suddenly  brought  into  power,  he 
has  a palais  given  him  by  the  state;  but  it  is  at  the  same  time 
demanded  of  him  that  he  should  do  the  honors  of  it.  The  prtfet 
has  previously  only  associated  with  the  best  people  of  Lander- 
nau  or  Carpentras,  and  the  society  of  the  lawyer  has  been 
limited  to  what  the  political  meetings  might  offer  him.  Now 
they  are  obliged  to  fill  their  salons ; the  suite  of  these  seems 
alarmingly  long  and  they  must  all  be  filled  ; the  crowd  alone  can 
prove  the  popularity  of  the  new  magnate.  In  such  circumstances 
one  cannot  be  very  particular  in  the  choice  of  the  guests,  and 
when  all  Paris  is  invited,  the  number  of  the  guests  will  generally 
only  just  suffice  to  prevent  a fiasco.  There  come  a number  of 
diplomatists,  military  men,  and  higher  government  officers,  who 
consider  it  their  duty  to  make  their  appearance;  a number  of 


RECEPTION  DAY  AT  A MINISTER’S. 


I83 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


*84 

English  people  who  feel  themselves  bound  to  look  at  this  curi- 
osity, as  they  do  at  all  other  curiosities  in  this  world  ; several 
American  ladies,  who  make  their  debut  in  French  social  life  their 
first  careful  reconnoitering  of  a territory  that  will  soon  be  con- 
quered ; and  finally  the  Parisians  who  come  to  meet  the  deputy 
because  they  want  help  in  some  matter  or  other,  everything 
being  attainable  nowadays  through  the  influence  of  the  deputies. 
But  nobody  thinks  of  going  to  a minister’s  soiree  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it ; the  pleasure  consists  in  walking  from  room  to  room 
and  paying  hackneyed  compliments.  On  the  other  hand  the 
material  comfort  cannot  be  the  aim,  either,  for  there  is  none; 
in  the  refreshment  room,  a glass  of  beer  or  fruit-wine,  bread  and 
butter  and  cakes  may  be  served,  but  the  champagne  has  been 
done  away  with  at  the  same  time  as  the  invitation  cards.  And 
if  the  minister  has  succeeded  in  getting  artists  of  rank  to  sing  or 
take  part  in  his  theatricals,  he  has  generally  gained  so  firm  a 
footing  that  he  can  afford  to  return  to  the  old  custom  of  inviting 
the  guests.  In  this  way  they  get  open  soirees  that  gradually 
become  closed,  and  closed  ones  with  a tendency  to  become  open, 
and  the  transition  is  very  gradual. 

When  the  stranger,  during  the  few  weeks  he  passes  in  Paris, 
is  fortunate  enough  to  get  acquainted  with  a Parisian  of  some 
social  position,  it  is  not  only  the  official  soirees,  but  also  the 
whole  social  world  of  Paris  that  is  opened  to  him.  A Parisian 
who  wants  to  show  a foreigner  a kindness,  has  not  known  him 
five  minutes  before  he  offers  to  introduce  him  to  some  celebrity. 
It  is  the  easiest  way  to  do  a favor.  It  is  necessary  once  in  a 
while  to  see  these  salons ; there  is  always  room  enough  for  two 
in  a cab,  and  among  the  hundreds  of  guests,  one  more  or  less 
makes  no  difference ; he  takes  his  new  friend  with  him  and 
introduces  him  to  the  celebrity,  who  shakes  hands  with  him,  and 
declares  himself  delighted  to  make  his  acquaintance,  lets  him 
walk  about  in  the  crowd  for  about  half  an  hour,  is  perhaps  even 
obliging  enough  to  drink  something  with  him,  and  that  is  the 
end  of  it.  But,  if  the  stranger  in  question  should  want  a con- 
tinuation, he  only  needs  to  leave  his  card  the  next  day  with  the 
celebrity’s  concierge,  to  be  sure  of  having  invitations  sent  to  his 
hotel  for  even  a couple  of  years  after  he  has  returned  home. 
His  name  is  on  the  list,  and  one’s  name  may  be  kept  almost  as 


SOIREES. 


t»5 

long  on  a Parisian  society  list  as  on  the  list  in  theatres  for  the 
premieres.  But  if  it  should  occur  to  him  to  pay  his  host  a pri- 
vate call,  the  latter  would  be  extremely  surprised,  and  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  begin  conversation  by  asking  his  guest’s  name. 
It  is,  of  course,  impossible  for  a Parisian  celebrity  to  know  all 
the  people  who  come  to  his  salons.  The  origin  of  these  salons  is 
not  very  different  from  that  of  the  minister’s  salons.  Society 
under  the  third  republic  consists  exclusively  of  new  men  ; dem- 
ocracy has  not  yet  been  definitely  formed,  nor  produced  men  of 
leading  prestige.  All  are  self-made  men,  risen  from  obscurity  by 
clever  speculations,  or  some  other  achievement  of  the  kind, 
which  in  our  time  decides  a man’s  worth.  They  do  then  what 
Walter,  in  Guy  de  Maupassant’s  “ Bel-Ami,”  did  when  the 
Morocco  campaign  had  brought  him  sixty  millions,  and  made 
him  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  financial  world.  He  paid  two-thirds 
of  these  millions  to  some  prince,  who  stood  in  need  of  money, 
for  a mansion  in  the  Champs-Elys6es,  furnished  in  the  taste  of 
past  generations.  The  new  man  pays  one  hundred  thousand 
francs  for  Markovitch’s  sensational  picture  of  “ Christ  Walking 
on  the  Water,”  has  it  hung  effectively  in  his  house,  and  then 
sends  out  invitations  to  everybody  to  come  and  look  at  it,  or 
rather  to  admire  the  glory  that  surrounds  it.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  card  is  added  “ dancing  after  twelve.”  Some  stay  out  of 
curiosity,  the  prospect  of  a luxurious  supper  retains  others,  and 
still  others  stay  because  somebody  else  does.  The  foundation  of 
the  salon  is  laid,  and  when  it  is  carried  out  with  the  same  dex- 
terity, he  may  at  the  end  of  the  season  possess  a circle  of 
guests  that  is  as  numerous  as  it  is  mixed.  But  the  host 
must  not  expect  that  these  people  come  there  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  each  other’s  society.  They  have  no  mutual  topics  of 
conversation,  their  interests  are  as  different  as  possible,  and  the 
salon  does  not  build  the  bridge  of  connection  between  them. 
They  are  so  conscious  of  its  incapability  for  doing  so,  that  it  is 
not  even  necessary  any  more  to  introduce  people  to  each  other. 
They  are  crowded  together  without  the  slightest  knowledge  of 
who  their  neighbors  are,  and  people  may  have  seen  each  other 
several  times,  before  they  accidentally  learn  their  respective 
names.  An  introduction  is  considered  superfluous,  they  are  all 
guests  at  a soiree  as  they  are  in  a theatre,  and  the  performance 


i86 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


is  the 'thing,  not  the  audience.  The  one  thing  necessary  is 
a crowd  and  a “ belle  salle  ” filled  with  prominent  people,  whose 
names  will  look  well  in  the  boulevard  papers  and  serve  as  an 

advertisement  of  the  host’s  social 
position.  But  like  the  theatre 
manager,  he  cannot  fill  his  house 
unless  he  offers  an  attractive  pro- 
gramme, and  the  Markovitch  ex- 
hibition that  made  the  commence- 
ment has  to  be  repeated  under 
other  forms.  The  inventive  power 
of  the  Parisian  does,  fortunately, 
fully  correspond  to  the  demands 
on  it.  The  time  was  past  long 
ago  when  the  host  considered  his 
duties  fulfilled  after  having  offered 
his  guests  music  and  dancing  and 
a little  supper,  followed  by  an 
amusing  and  entertaining  cotillon. 
Now,  more  style  is  demanded.  A 
ball  with  the  usual  evening  cos- 
tumes is  as  common  and  tiresome 
as  the  tiresome  every-day  exist- 
ence which  it  ought  to  make  us 
forget.  Already,  some  years  ago, 
people  began  to  take  up  the  red 
coats  and  fancy  costumes,  and 
this  had  at  last  the  anticipated  result. 

It  is  demanded  of  a good  romance  that  it  should  carry  us 
back  to  times  more  harmonious  than  our  own,  and  this  is  just 
what  Parisians  demand  of  a soiree  comme  il  faut.  Everything, 
even  to  the  surroundings,  must  be  entirely  changed  ; when  the 
invitations  call  to  a “ fete  villageoise  ” the  entire  house  must  be 
transformed  into  an  immense  flower-garden,  when  many  colored 
climbers  creep  up  the  espaliers  along  the  walls,  where  supper  is 
served  by  peasant-girls  in  long  arbors  covered  with  vines,  where 
the  valets  are  dressed  as  gendarmes , and  the  processions  are 
peasant  weddings  and  May-queen  parties.  At  a Japanese  festival 
all  the  rooms  are  covered  with  Japanese  silks;  every  piece  of 


SOIREES. 


187 


furniture  and  all  the  china  that  is  used  is  Japanese.  The  revivals 
of  different  periods  of  French  history  is,  however,  now  the  high- 
est fashion.  The  troubadour  balls  are  especially  favored.  But 
people  are  not  afraid  of  committing  great  extravagances  for  the 


THE  OBLIGATORY  SUPPER. 


sake  of  offering  something  novel  and  odd.  The  Princesse  de 
Sagan  has  been  known  to  change  her  entire  mansion  into  a 
veritable  Noah’s  ark,  where  all  the  guests  were  obliged  to  meet 
in  animal  disguise.  To  make  the  illusion  complete  some  of  the 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


most  graceful  inhabitants  of  the  Jar  din  d' acclimatation  vrzre  in- 
vited. Evening  after  evening  the  soirees  rival  each  other  in  their 
efforts  to  invent  something  new  that  may  create  a sensation  and 
attract  the  attention  of  tout  Paris.  The  times  have  changed  and 
with  them  the  salons  ; V esprit  has  disappeared  and  has  been  re- 
placed by  pomp.  The  salons  are  different  but  as  brilliant  as  ever, 
even  if  they  do  not  possess  all  the  qualities  of  the  galoshes  of 
fortune  and  remove  their  guests  to  other  times  and  other  worlds, 
they  still  find  means  to  come  as  near  the  marvelous  as  possible. 
It  is  not  difficult  when  the  money  is  there,  and  every  Parisian 
who  attempts  to  give  a great  entertainment  knows  beforehand 
that  he  cannot  take  into  account  20,000  francs  more  or  less.  If  he 
can  think  of  nothing  else  he  must  get  a Patti  or  a Nilsson  to  sing, 
or  he  must  buy  of  some  prominent  author  the  right  to  the  first 
performance  of  a “ proverbe  ” and  get  the  stars  from  the  Theatre 
Frangais  to  play  it.  He  must,  in  the  heart  of  the  winter,  give  a 
supper,  which,  if  it  creates  no  other  illusion,  at  least  makes  you 
believe  it  is  mid-summer;  or  he  must,  if  he  can  invent  nothing 
more  extraordinary,  do  what  an  American  millionaire  once 
did  : arrange  a cotillon  where  the  bouquets  are  replaced  by 
silver  and  gold  ornaments.  And  if,  in  spite  of  all  this,  his 
soiree  should  fail  to  make  the  desired  sensation,  there  is  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  return  to  the  open  soirees  and  do  what  Mr.  Gail- 
lard  did. 

Mr.  Gaillard’s  biography  is  easily  written.  It  was  he  who  built 
the  mansion  on  Place  Malesherbes,  that  palace  which  is  a true 
copy  of  the  historical  one  at  Blois,  and  the  erection  of  which  has 
cost  sixteen  millions,— everybody  in  Paris  knows  as  much,  but 
nobody  any  more.  Mr.  Gaillard  might  have  fallen  down  from 
the  moon,  or  his  millions,  at  least,  might  have  come  in  this  way, 
nobody  cares  much  about  that.  His  palace  stands  there  on 
costly  Parisian  ground,  and  he  has  a firm  footing  in  Parisian 
society.  He  is  typical  of  a very  modern  Parisian  figure,  the 
nabob  of  the  ’8o’s,  the  native  and  fully  acclimatized  nabob.  Like 
that  of  his  exotic  predecessors,  his  descent  is  enveloped  in  a veil 
of  mystery  that  nobody  tries  to  lift.  He  makes  his  appearance 
in  the  Parisian  world,  all  eyes  are  turned  toward  him.  It  is  a 
true  louis  d'or-g lory,  and  when  people  are  convinced  of  that,  curi- 
osity ceases,  he  is  received  without  a passport  in  whatever  society 


SOIREES. 


189 


he  chooses,  and  he  is  entered  in  the  gay  capital’s  book  of  no- 
bility without  having  to  present  his  papers.  And  what  is  more, 
his  name  remains  there.  The  old  nabob  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared like  a comet;  the  new  is  a fixed  star;  there  lies  the 
great  difference  between  the  two.  The  millions  belonging  to  the 
old  nabob  were  consumed  in  the  Parisian  atmosphere ; those  be- 


longing to  the  new  one  accumulate  there,  and  the  process  of  their 
growth  is  as  mysterious  as  their  origin  ; but  the  banks  furnish  the 
proof  of  the 'results,  and  the  Paris  of  to-day  is  practical,  and  that 
is  all  it  cares  for. 

Mr.  Gaillard  wanted  to  celebrate  his  daughter’s  coming  out, 
but  he  would  do  it  in  a way  worthy  of  the  palace  in  Place  Males- 
herbes.  And  he  conceived  the  plan  of  his  great  Francois  premier 
ball.  Tout  Paris  was  invited  to  the  ceremony ; the  number  of 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


190 

the  invitations  sent  out  was  over  five  thousand  ; nobody  had  as 
yet  gone  as  far  as  this,  except  at  the  Elys6es.  When  M.  Gr6vy 
twice  a year  was  obliged  to  let  the  Parisians  dance  at  his  expense, 
it  was  necessary  to  let  the  number  of  his  guests  be  rather  large. 
His  heart  bled  when  the  cook  presented  him  the  budget  for  the 
supper,  but  it  could  not  be  helped  ; all  administrators  and  am- 
bassadors sent  in  their  lists,  and  it  was  not  only  for  his  and  their 
friends,  but  for  the  whole  republic,  and  to  a certain  extent  for- 
eign countries  too,  that  he  gave  his  ball.  In  this  case  the  five 
thousand  was  almost  unavoidable.  But  a man  in  private  life  had 
never  done  anything  like  this,  before  Mr.  Gaillard,  and  it  was  not 
dreamed  that  it  could  be  done.  People  generally  invited  every- 
body they  could  think  of  to  add  to  the  number,  but  considered 
it  necessary  to  have  been  introduced  to  their  guest,  to  have  been 
face  to  face  and  shaken  hands  with  him  at  least  once.  Mr. 
Gaillard  introduced  a new  fashion.  He  reasoned  as  follows: 
“ II  faut  quune  porte  soit  ouverte  ou  fermle ,”  and  he  opened  his 
doors  wide  for  every  one  that  cared  to  come.  He  took  simply 
an  annual  series  of  the  Boulevard  papers,  and  had  a list  made  of 
> all  the  names  mentioned  in  their  soiree  articles.  It  was  not 
taken  into  consideration  whether  he  knew  the  person  in  question 
or  not  ; when  their  names  had  been  on  the  society  list  only 
once,  they  received  his  invitation.  / At  the  same  time  he  paid  the 
journalists  well  to  write  about  the  festival.  The  papers  said  that 
all  Paris  thought  of  nothing  but  preparing  for  it,  and  that  such 
and  such  of  the  best  dress-makers  had  made  the  costumes  for  it, 
that  it  was  the  great  event  of  the  season,  etc. 

Excited  by  all  these  articles,  Paris  became  gradually  highly 
interested  in  Gaillard’s  ball.  Several  people  sent  in  applications 
for  invitations,  when  they  had  been  forgotten,  and  if  they  did 
not  receive  any  after  all,  they  simply  bought  one  of  somebody 
else.  The  ticket-speculators  found  on  this  occasion  a new  trade 
district,  and  their  d6but  on  this  field  was  so  lucrative  that 
they  may  continue  the  business.  Here  and  there  in  the  Fau- 
bourg world,  there  may  yet  have  been  those  that  were  old-fash- 
ioned enough  to  consider  this  invitation,  coming  from  a perfect 
stranger,  an  insult  ; but  the  Faubourg  plays  but  a small  part  in 
the  social  life  of  the  day.  The  majority  of  the  5000  accepted, 
and  there  were,  among  these  5000,  notabilities  enough  to  spread 


SOIREES. 


191 

the  glory  over  the  crowd.  The  host  stood,  in  a magnificent 
Francois  I.  costume,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  to  receive  his 
guests.  When  their  right  to  admission  had  been  rectified  by  the 
controllers,  the  trumpets  were  blown  and  the  procession  passed 
by  him  between  two  rows  of  halberdiers.  It  was  unequaled  as  a 
historical  procession.  At  the  supper  the  5000  were  regaled  with 
the  choicest  dishes  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  during  the 
entire  night  fountains  flowed  with  the  costliest  wines.  The 
Gaillard  ball  was  an  unequaled  success.  The  end  toward  which 
Parisian  soiree  life  had  striven,  step  for  step,  was  here  reached  at 
one  bold  leap.  The  evening  in  the  Blois  palace  was  an  innova- 
tion. A fete  must  be  like  this  one  in  the  future  if  it  is  to  meet 
the  social  demands.  Then  it  will  correspond  to  the  high  pressure 
under  which  we  live,  the  feverish  excitement,  the  great  neurosis 
of  our  day. 


XIX. 

Funerals. 


THE  Parisians  do  not  fear  death  ; their  revo- 
lutions and  the  many  revolver  dramas  that 
are  the  order  of  the  day  prove  how  little  rever- 
ence they  have  for  it.  The  thought  of  it  does  not 
conjure  up  to  them  the  same  mystic,  frightful 
fantasies  that  it  does  to  the  Germanic  races. 
But,  in  spite  of  this,  they  have  as  much  respect 
for  the  dead  as  any  nation,  and  never  meet  a 
funeral  procession  without  deferentially  uncover- 
ing their  heads.  There  is,  however,  more  courtesy 
than  grief  in  this  custom.  They  try  to  please  the 
dead,  and  give  him  that  which  he  appreciated 
most  when  he  was  alive.  When,  on  All  Souls’ 
day,  the  crowds  pass  the  graves  of  the  most 
famous  and  popular  men,  they  turn  a corner  of 
their  visiting  cards  and  put  them  in  between  the 
bars  of  the  railing,  that  the  object  of  this  atten- 
tion may  know  that  they  have  been  there  in  person.  But  they  do 
not  waste  many  tears  over  their  dead  ; there  is  no  time  to  worry 
and  grieve  ; life  in  this  great  city  demands  of  them  that  they 
should  live  for  the  living,  not  for  the  dead.  The  procession  on 
All  Souls’ day  is,  for  most  families,  the  only  visit  to  the  cemetery 
that  they  find  time  to  make  in  the  course  of  the  year.  They  call 
upon  their  dear  departed  on  the  first  of  November,  as  they  do  on 
their  living  relations  and  friends  on  New  Year’s  day.  But  all  the 
honor  that  can  be  shown  without  loss  of  time  is  carefully  given  to 
them  ; there  is  no  place  where  mourning  is  deeper  and  is  of  longer 
duration  than  in  Paris.  The  bereaved  widow  or  daughter  does 
not  only  dress  in  black,  but  envelops  herself  from  head  to  foot 
in  clouds  of  crepe  veiling.  The  carriages  and  horses  are  covered 


192 


FUNERALS.  193 

with  crepe,  and  even  a servant,  if  she  is  of  French  blood,  does 
not  take  off  her  mourning  until  after  the  regulation  two  years. 

As  to  the  funeral  itself,  the  French  capital  reaches,  without 
doubt,  the  full  height  of  pomp  and  extrava- 
gance that  can  be  displayed  in  carrying  a man 
to  his  last  resting-place.  The  great  undertaker’s 
firm  in  the  Rue  d’Aubevilliers  has  the  exclu- 
sive privilege  of  the  profession  and  all  that  be- 
longs to  it.  About  500  pall-bearers  come  there 
every  morning,  150  hearses  of  all  descriptions 
stand  ready  to  be  drawn  out,  large  storerooms 
are  filled  with  palls  and  draperies  for  churches 
and  portals,  while  in  others  are  kept  thousands 
of  chandeliers,  candelabra,  and  torches.  Under 
the  building  are  basements,  almost  like  real 
catacombs,  filled  with  a smell  of  fir-wood,  so 
strong  that  it  almost  chokes  one.  About 
20,000  coffins  stand  in  long  rows  on  top  of  each  other,  ready 
for  their  occupants.  In  a corner  stand  about  fifty  hand-carts, 
with  a peculiar  kind  of  wheels,  painted  green,  covered  with 
black  net,  and  hermetically  closed  ; they  are  only  used  when 
some  horrible  epidemic  decimates  the  population.  They  have, 
fortunately,  not  been  in  use  in  our  generation,  but  are  ready  to 
be  turned  out  at  a moment’s  notice.  In  another  is  still  kept — as 
if  it  were  feared  that  they  might  be  needed  some 
day — a collection  of  hand-carts,  used  during  the 
siege ; the  ordinary  hearses  could  not  have  been 
used ; people  would  have  seized  the  horses  to  eat 
them.  The  company  has  offices  and  agents  in  all 
quarters  of  the  city. 

As  soon  as  the  great  reaper  has  visited  a house, 
the  family  sends  word  to  one  of  these  offices, 
which  take  upon  themselves  to  do  everything.  In 
a city  as  large  as  Paris  death  notices  in  the  paper 
would  not  suffice  ; the  business  men  in  the  suburbs, 
who  cannot  afford  to  do  much,  simply  close  their  stores  and  put  up 
a hand-written  notice,  telling  their  customers  of  the  death,  and 
naming  the  day  of  the  funeral  ; but  in  the  city  it  is  only  the  very 
poor  that  do  not  send  out  a printed  card.  In  the  name  of  each 


194 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


and  all  of  the  surviving  relatives,  named  one  after  another,  people 
are  informed  that  so  and  so  has  departed  and  that  he  will  be 
buried  on  such  and  such  a day  and  from  such  and  such  a place. 
The  office  has  the  printing  and  distribution  of  these  cards  done 
so  quickly  that  the  friends  of  the  deceased  often  receive  the 
death  notice,  in  due  form,  a few  hours  after  the  catastrophe. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose  on  such  occasions  ; it  is  the  law  that 
the  body  should  be  out  of  the  house  before  twenty-four  hours 
have  passed,  and,  only  a very  few  being  able  to  have  it  kept  in 
another  place,  it  has  become  a custom  to  inter  it  at  the  same 
time.  When  one  dies  on  Sunday,  he  sleeps,  on  Tuesday,  under 
the  ground,  and  with  however  great  pomp  they  may  have  paid 
him  their  last  tribute,  he  is,  nevertheless,  on  Wednesday  out  of 
sight  out  of  mind,  or  at  least  heard  of  no  more  in  Paris.  Simul- 
taneously with  sending  the  death  notice  to  the  printers,  the  office 
sends  its  representative  to  the  house  of  mourning.  He  is  always 
a very  distinguished  and  discreet  gentleman,  in  a correct  black 
coat,  carrying  under  his  arm  a large  morocco-leather  portfolio, 
from  which  he  brings  forth  a number  of  printed  circulars,  while 
he  assures  you,  with  a sympathetic  lowering  of  the  voice,  that 
you  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  anything  at  all  ; he  under- 
stands the  situation  and  you  may  safely  leave  all  to  him.  The 
only  thing  he  must  necessarily  know  is  which  class  you  would 
prefer.  The  company  has  nominally  nine  classes  of  funerals,  but 
practically  sixteen,  the  first  seven  being  divided  into  numbers  I 
and  2.  It  is  the  hearse  that  makes  the  great  difference  in  the 
classes.  Formerly,  the  luxury  of  silver  ornaments  and  plumage 
decorations  were  reserved  for  kings,  princes,  and  other  grands  sei- 
gneurs ; ordinary  mortals  were  carried  to  their  graves  in  the  way 
still  used  in  the  country.  The  hearse  was,  for  every  one,  the 
richest  as  well  as  the  poorest,  a simple  black  cart,  drawn  by  two 
black  horses  ; but  it  was  not  long  before  money  made  its  influ- 
ence felt,  and  there  is  now  a ladder  of  sixteen  steps,  from  the 
poor  hearse,  14  francs,  up  to  the  hearse  of  the  first  class,  No.  1, 
that  costs — the  expenses  of  the  cortege  included — at  least  1636 
francs.  The  cortege  consists  (aside  from  the  carriages,  of  which 
there  may  be  at  least  three,  drawn  by  four  horses)  of  uniformed 
pall-bearers,  very  different  from  the  usual  croquemorts,  and  of 
the  exceedingly  elegant  master  of  ceremonies,  who  carries  a 


I95 


first-class”  hearse. 


196 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  V. 


rapier  and  wears  knickerbockers,  cocked  hat,  and  shoes  with  large 
silver  buckles.  This  functionary’s  profession  is  one  that  requires 
a gymnastic  education,  and,  moreover,  a pliable  back  and  a voice 
at  the  same  time  solemn  and  penetrating,  so  that,  at  the  moment 
when  the  funeral  is  to  start,  he  may  say  with  due  effect  : “ Quand. 
cela  plaira  h la  famillel ’ He  must  have  well-formed  limbs,  and 
beyond  all  be  very  dignified,  for  he  is  the  one  who  carries  the 
decorations  of  the  deceased  on  a crepe-covered  velvet  cushion. 
All  included,  the  decoration  of  the  house,  the  porch,  the  cata- 
falco  in  front  of  the  church,  and  the  decorations  inside,  a funeral 
of  first  class,  No.  1,  will  cost  about  six  thousand  francs.  And 
this  does  not  even  embrace  the  fitting  up  of  the  coffin,  nor  the 
gifts  to  the  poor.  If  the  proper  liberality  is  displayed  it  is  not 
impossible  that  the  family  may  have  to  pay  about  ten  thousand 
francs  for  a funeral  of  the  best  class. 

It  is  not  to  be  ascertained  to  how  much  the  offerings  of 
sympathetic  friends  and  acquaintances  may  amount  ; the  mani- 
festations of  sympathy  must  correspond  to  everything  else  ; a 
few  modest  bouquets  on  the  coffin  would  not  suffice  to  reach  one’s 
aim  of  sending  a noticeable  token  of  respect.  It  would  be  neces- 
sary to  buy  a wreath  so  large  that  it  takes  ten  persons  to  carry 
it;  this,  then,  follows  immediately  after  the  hearse,  and  the 
crowd  that  have  gathered  on  the  sidewalk  manifest  their  appro- 
bation, by  clapping  more  and  more  vehemently  the  larger  it  is. 
At  the  great  funerals  of  some  popular  hero,  when  the  entire 
population  joins  the  funeral  procession  in  corporations,  hundreds 
of  these  wreaths  may  be  carried  through  the  streets.  But 
even  if  it  be  done  quite  simply,  it  is,  nevertheless,  an  expensive 
affair  to  be  buried  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  If  one  does  not 
want  to  be  taken  for  a pauper,  it  is  necessary  to  give  the  de- 
parted a funeral  of  at  least  fifth  class,  No.  2.  Even  as  far  down 
the  ladder  as  this,  the  expenses  amount  to  over  five  hundred 
francs. 

All  church  affairs  come  very  high  in  Paris,  and  this  is  perhaps 
not  the  only  reason  that  civil  funerals  have  become  more  and 
more  common.  On  such  occasions  the  procession  simply  gathers 
at  the  portal  of  the  house,  which  is  decorated  in  black  silver- 
fringed  draperies,  and  goes  from  there  to  the  cemetery,  where 
the  nearest  relatives  or  friends  say  a few  words  in  praise  of  the 


FUNERALS. 


197 


deceased,  and,  if  they  are  very  democratic  and  fashionable,  close 
the  grave  with  some  profound  words  like  those  in  which  an  ultra 
democratic  father,  a short  time  ago,  bid  his  son  farewell.  “ Fare- 
well, my  child  ! ” he  said  ; “ farewell,  citi- 
zen ; for  you  were  a citizen  of  the  future, 
who,  at  least,  had  the  advantage  of  not  being 
baptized.  You  return  now 
to  the  great  Nothing,  for  the 
soul  is  only  the  child  of  su- 
perstition, which  reality  does 
not  acknowledge.” 

The  very  cemetery 
is  covered  with 
gold.  A perma- 
nent lot,  that  is, 
one  where  the 
body  is  allowed 
to  remain  undis- 
turbed for  ninety- 
nine  years,  costs 
seven  hundred 
francs,  as  long  as 
it  does  not  exceed 
two  metres.  For 
every  two  metres 
over,  the  prices  are 
gradually  raised  ; 
first  it  is  one  thou- 
sand, then  fifteen  hundred  francs,  and  when  it  is  over  six  metres, 
two  thousand  francs  for  every  additional  two  metres.  It  is  only 
just  that  the  luxury  of  the  land,  even  in  a cemetery,  should  be  paid 
for,  especially  where  the  ground  is  as  dear  as  in  Paris.  The  com- 
mune takes  in  yearly  a million  and  a half  francs  for  the  sale  of 
permanent  burial  places,  and  about  a million  for  those  bought 
for  a shorter  time.  They  are  generally  taken  for  five  years  at  a 
time,  at  the  end  of  which  the  buyer  has  a right  to  renew  the 


GIGANTIC  WREATH.’ 


* The  above  represents  one  of  the  monumental  wreaths  which  were  carried  at  the 
funeral  pageant  held  in  honor  of  Victor  Hugo. — [Amer.  Ed.] 


198 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  V.  ' 


purchase  by  paying  once  more  his  fifty  francs,  and  the  terror  of 
the  Parisians  for  la  fosse  commune  is  such  that  even  the  poorest 
make  use  of  this  privilege.  Fifty  francs  every  five  years  is 

certainly  not  a fortune,  but 
when  one  earns  twenty  sous  a 
day  it  may  be  very  hard  to 
procure  them.  An  old  woman 
has  just  recently  been  talked 
about  who  did  not  earn  any 
more,  and  who,  although  she 
was  in  great  need,  saved  sou 
after  sou  that  she  might  at  last 
have  the  money  necessary  to 
keep  her  son’s  grave,  the  only 
thing  she  loved  in  this  world. 
She  came,  on  the  day  of  pay- 
ment, happy  to  be  able  to 
bring  the  money,  but  she  re- 
ceived the  same  answer  as  so 
many  others  : the  renewal  was 
impossible.  The  cemetery 
had  to  be  relaid  that  they 
might  gain  ground,  and  she 
would  be  obliged  to  buy  a new  grave 
somewhere  else.  But  the  removal  of 
the  body  was  not  included  in  the 
same  price,  and  as  it  was  absolutely 
impossible  for  her  to  procure  the 
money  needed  'to  pay  for  this,  too, 
her  son  was,  after  all,  put  in  the  great 
common  grave,  and  her  sorrow  over 
this  was  so  keen,  that  after  a short 
while  she  was  carried  there  herself. 
praying  for  the  dead  in  the  With  the  exception  of  this  tragical 

CREMATORY  CHAPEL.  , . , . . , , , -j.i 

ending  her  story  might  be  said  to  be 
that  of  many  others.  Sure  of  their  right  to  renewal,  they  come 
at  the  end  of  the  five  years,  and  are  informed  that  a removal  will 
be  necessary,  and  this  always  means  new  expenses. 

The  Parisians  have,  therefore,  with  great  interest,  witnessed 


FUNERALS. 


199 


the  erection  of  the  new  crematory  on  P&re  Lachaise.  The  build- 
ing, looking  like  a mosque,  in  which  the  necessary  rooms  are 
being  built,  is  not  yet  finished  at  this  writing,  but  the  oven  is 
already  in  use,  and  to  judge  from  the  results  obtained  at  the  trials 
they  have  made  with  unrecognized  bodies  from  the  hospitals,  it 
seems  to  perform  its  functions  satisfactorily.  When  it  will  be 
ready  for  public  use  there  is  hardly  any  doubt  that  it  will  be  in 
great  demand.  Everything  is  done  that  is  possible  to  remove  all 
that  might  seem  brutal  and  hurt  people’s  feelings  before  they 
are  yet  hardened  to  this  new  method.  The  oven  is  not  lighted 
till  after  the  body  is  put  in ; wood  is  used  for  the  heating,  which 
never  exceeds  6oo°  centigrade  ; the  cremation  lasts  one  hour  and 
one-half,  and  not  the  slightest  odor  can  be  perceived.  The 
family  and  friends  of  the  deceased  are  shown  into  a large  hall, 
looking  like  a chapel,  where  the  ceremonies  of  the  different  sects 
are  performed  as  they  are  now  in  the  churches,  and  where  people 
may  at  any  time  pray  for  the  dead.  When  the  cremation  pro- 
cess is  finished,  the  ashes  are  gathered  and  kept  in  an  urn. 
Those  that  want  to  economize  and  limit  the  expenses  to  the 
cremation  may  have  their  urns  placed  in  the  large,  municipal, 
common  grave ; those  that  can  afford  luxury  may  have  urns  of 
gold  and  silver,  and  have  monuments  erected  over  them  as  they 
have  now  over  their  graves.  Cremation  does  not  need  to  make 
any  break  in  the  final  disposition  of  the  remains  of  the  dead. 
The  only  gain  is  that  the  ceremony  and  the  expenses  are  consid- 
erably simplified,  and  this  is  a change  that  might  seem  necessary. 


SOI 


XX. 

Parisian  Ticket  Speculators. 


THERE  are  still  people  who  seem  to  think  that  the  theatre  is 
the  focus  of  Parisian  glory,  the  central  point  of  attraction  for 
the  pilgrims  who  seek  this  modern  Mecca ; and  because  of  this 
belief  the  impressionable  Seine  capital  suffers  regularly  every 
autumn  from  an  attack  of  the  most  alarming  fear.  Tout  Paris 
has  not  yet  returned  from  the  pleasures  of  the  hunt ; the  stars 
are  on  their  summer  tournees,  the  theatres  have  not  been  able  to 
finish  the  rehearsals  of  the  great  plays  reserved  for  the  winter 
campaign,  and  are  temporarily  obliged  to  live  on  the  old  pieces. 
It  may,  consequently,  happen  that  some  theatre  once  in  a while 
will  be  only  half  filled  ; the  news  of  this  calamity  spreads  with 
lightning  speed  through  the  town,  and  for  each  time  it  is  repeated, 
the  mortification  grows.  The  managers  prepare  for  a strike, 
and  let  it  be  understood  that  they  will  find  themselves  under  the 
inevitable  necessity  of  closing  if  the  State  does  not  step  in  and 

203 


OPPOSITE  THE  VAUDEVILLE  THEATRE. 


204 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


assist  them.  Each  and  every  well-disposed  citizen  considers  him- 
self in  duty  bound  to  rack  his  brains  to  find  a means  to  prevent 
the  crisis.  But  this  abnormal  state,  fortunately,  seldom  lasts 
longer  than  the  snow  that  falls  in  the  Paris  streets.  In  one  night 
the  wind  may  change  and  transform  winter 
into  spring,  and  one  evening’s  success  alters 
the  situation  completely.  One  great  premiere 
follows  another  ; everybody  wants  to  go  to 
the  theatre,  and  nobody  succeeds  in  getting 
there.  It  is  once  more  a Herculean  task  to 
procure  a ticket ; it  has  to  be  ordered 
months  in  advance,  or  to  be  paid  with  hun- 
dreds of  francs.  A wave  of  indignation 
sweeps  over  Paris  ; the  authorities  are  called 
upon  to  interfere ; there  is  a threat  of  an  in- 
terpellation in  the  chambers,  and  it  is  feared 
that  serious  trouble  may  arise  if  there  is  not 
soon  done  something  to  satisfy  the  theatre- 
hungry  public.  The  want  of  the  theatre  has 
been  changed  into  the  want  of  the  Parisians 
to  go  to  the  theatre,  and  that  is  the  normal 
state.  This  is,  of  course,  first  of  all  the  re- 
sult of  this  nation’s  exceptional  craving  for 
dramatic  effect,  and  the  great  ability  of 
those  who  are  called  upon  to  satisfy  this 
craving ; but  there  are  a few  other  reasons 
which  deserve  to  be  mentioned,  and  one  of 
the  most  important  of  them  is  the  ticket  speculator. 

The  business  of  a Parisian  ticket  speculator  is  an  excellent 
one.  Millions  of  francs  pass  yearly  through  his  hands,  and  the 
matadors  of  the  profession  earn  more  than  many  a successful 
manager.  They  have  their  own  private  mansions,  horses,  and 
carriages,  etc.  It  is  not  only  a good  business,  but  quite  a 
respected  one,  as  almost  any  business  is  now  in  Paris,  when  it  is 
sufficiently  remunerative.  In  free  America,  work  ennobles  any 
profession ; in  the  Americanized  Paris  it  is  the  same.  The 
Pariahs  of  ticket  speculators,  the  lazzaroni  that  are  hired  to 
carry  on  the  business  in  detail  in  the  streets,  may  yet  once  in  a 
while  have  a conflict  with  the  police,  for  there  are  still  a few 


THEATRE-HUNGRY. 


THEA  TRES. 


205 


antediluvian  rules  that  a pretense  is  made  of  enforcing  when  the 
public  makes  serious  complaints.  But  those  that  really  do  the 
business,  the  speculators  en  gros,  are  never  molested.  The 


SOCIETY  LIONS  SELLING  PROGRAMS  AT  $4  APIECE  AT  CHARITABLE  PERFORMANCES. 


theatre  itself  holds  its  protecting  hands  over  them,  for  they  are 
an  indispensable  wheel  in  the  machinery,  without  whose  help 
nothing  could  succeed.  Authors,  managers,  and  actors  equally 
need  their  services.  The  authors  have,  in  fact,  laid  the  founda- 


206 


PARIS  OF  TO- DA  V. 


tion  of  their  business.  Apart  from  the  percentage,  which  varies 
from  eight  to  fifteen  per  cent.,  the  author  gets  a certain  amount 
of  tickets  for  each  performance,  never  under  fifty,  often  about  a 
hundred.  Sometimes  it  may  happen  that  one  who  makes  his 
ddbut  uses  them  all  to  send  applauding  friends  and  acquaintances 
to  the  theatre,  but  this  is  exceptional.  Most  authors  consider 
these  tickets  an  integration  of  their  receipts,  and  make  their  ar- 
rangements with  the  ticket  speculator  before  the  first  perform- 
ance. These  generally  buy  them  u en  bloc"  for  the  whole  suite  of 
performances,  for  about  half  of  the  ordinary  prices  asked  at  the 
box-office.  This  is  for  the  author  a regular  income  of  some  hun- 
dred francs  an  evening,  and  the  speculator  may  become  rich  on  one 
business  affair  of  this  kind,  when  the  piece  meets  with  success. 
When  everything  is  sold  out  at  the  ticket-office  he  can  easily  ask  a 
lonis  d'or  apiece  for  his  fauteuils,  for  when  there  is  anything  that 
the  Parisians  are  especially  anxious  to  see,  something  that  they 
consider  it  incompatible  with  their  social  position  not  to  have 
witnessed,  they  have  gradually  grown  accustomed  to  overlook  the 
pecuniary  sacrifices  that  it  involves.  The  leading  ladies  in  high 
life  have  of  late  invented  the  large  charitable  performances,  to 
which  the  ticket  unhesitatingly  was  decreed  to  cost  a hun- 
dred francs.  The  most  renowned  society  lions  stand  at  the 
entrance,  selling  programs  at  a louis  apiece;  all  dramatic 
stars  compete  for  the  honor  of  assisting,  and  all  Paris  must 
consequently  be  at  the  festival,  cost  what  it  may.  The  opera, 
and  even  other  theatres  that  have  had  occasion  to  do  so, 
have,  at  different  gala  representations,  followed  the  tempting 
example  of  the  hundred  franc  ticket.  The  Parisian  view  of  what 
may  be  paid  for  an  admission,  when  the  seats  are  in  great 
demand,  has  thereby  gradually  been  considerably  widened,  and 
the  speculator’s  prices  are  therefore  not  considered  exorbitant. 
If  he  gets  twenty  francs  a seat  he  may,  the  percentage  to  the 
street  vender  deducted,  have  a net  profit  of  up  to  fifteen  francs 
on  each  of  his  “author’s  tickets.”  If  the  piece  does  not  draw 
well,  the  cry  “ moins  cher  qu  au  bureau  ” sounds  in  chorus  at  the 
entrance,  and  always  entices  people  to  buy.  They  know  very 
well  that  they  do  not  run  any  risks  in  sparing  these  few  francs. 
The  ticket  is  valid,  and  is,  being  numbered,  even  better  than  any 
bought  at  the  office  in  the  evening.  For  among  the  many  peculi- 


THEA  TEES. 


207 


arities  of  Parisian  theatre  arrangements,  is  also  the  one  that  no 
reserved  seats  are  sold  at  ordinary  prices  ; one  has  to  buy  a ticket 
of  admission  to  some  part  of  the  house,  and  it  is  the  business  of 
the  “ ouvreuses”  to  assign  the  seats.  The  tickets  which  it  is  for- 
bidden to  sell,  that  is,  those  given  to  the  actors  and  other  persons 
belonging  to  the  theatre,  are  not  sold  in  the  street,  but  there  is 
nevertheless  a regular  traffic  carried  on  with  them. 

Supernumeraries  and  other  inferior  functionaries,  who  are 
always  paid  very  badly  in  Paris,  try  their  best  to  make  a little 
extra  money  by  selling  the  tickets  given  them.  In  the  rear  of  a 
house  in  the  Rue  Montmartre,  and  in  still  another  place  on  the 
left  bank,  they  can  be  bought  for  a mere  trifle.  The  old  woman 
in  the  Rue  Montmartre  still  keeps  the  very  prices  she  had  twenty 
years  ago — four  francs  for  two  seats.  She  only  sells  to  people 
who  are  recommended  by  old  customers  ; the  sale  is  made  behind 
carefully  closed  doors  ; the  buyer  must  give  a solemn  promise 
that  he  will  never,  under  any  circumstances,  say  anything  but 
that  he  has  had  the  tickets  given  to  him,  and  is  at  the  same  time 
earnestly  asked  not  to  make  any  objection  to  the  seats  assigned 
him,  however  bad  they  may  be.  But  her  mystical  secrecy  is 
entirely  superfluous ; the  origin  of  these  tickets  is  very  well 
known  at  the  theatre,  and  if  the  person  who  presents  them  is  well 
dressed,  they  always  give  him  the  best  seats  they  can  dispose  of. 
The  Parisian  of  the  middle  classes,  the  government  official  whose 
small  income  would  otherwise  not  permit  him  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  is,  by  the  Rue  Montmartre  woman’s  help,  able  to  allow 
himself  this  luxury  once  in  a while.  And  if  he  puts  on  his  best 
clothes,  he  may  almost  always  count  on  witnessing  the  perfor- 
mance with  his  wife  and  daughter  from  a box  that  would  cost  six 
times  as  much  at  the  ticket  office. 

It  is  chiefly  for  the  Theatre  Frangais  and  Odeon,  and  more 
especially  the  latter,  that  this  woman  has  tickets.  The  managers 
themselves  may  probably  in  some  way  put  them  at  her  disposal. 
The  Odeon  is  so  large  that  it  can  only  on  rare  occasions  be  filled 
by  regular  sale,  for,  being  supported  by  the  State,  it  does  not 
dare  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  ordinary  ticket  speculators. 
As  far  as  the  private  theatres  are  concerned  such  a traffic  is  quite 
common.  The  speculator’s  arrangement  with  the  author  only 
serves  as  a basis  for  the  plain,  every-day  business  that  may  be  very 


2o8 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  Y. 


lucrative  but  never  enough  so  to  make  him  a millionaire.  For 
this  he  needs  the  help  of  the  manager,  who  in  Paris  seldom  is  a 
Croesus.  When  he  has  to  bring  out  a new  piece  that  involves 
many  expenses,  he  may  sometimes  be  in  a sad  dilemma.  People 
out  of  his  own  profession  are  not  very  willing  to  lend  him  money, 
for  it  needs  an  experienced  eye  to  know  if  a theatre  has  a firm 
footing  or  not.  Then  the  speculator  steps  in.  He  knows 
exactly  how  matters  stand  ; he  always  has  the  necessary  ready 
money,  and  he  is  very  willing  to  let  his  friend  the  manager  have 
it  in  advance  ; that  is,  of  course,  if  he  has  confidence  in  the  play 
that  is  to  be  given.  It  is  not  a loan,  however — simply  a sale ; 
the  manager  is  to  give  him  in  return  for  the  money  a “ conces- 
sion” : a certain  number  of  tickets  for  so  many  of  the  first  per- 
formances. They  are,  of  course,  not  paid  for  as  they  would  be 
at  the  ticket  office,  but  the  arrangement  is,  nevertheless,  quite 
respectable,  and  nobody  could  say  about  the  noble  business  man 
that  he  was  practising  usury, — he  is  simply  speculating  like 
every  one  else.  If  the  piece  is  a failure,  his  money  is  lost,  and 
there  have  been  seen  such  total  failures  in  Paris  that  the  play 
only  was  given  two  or  three  times.  But  it  must  be  added  that 
the  speculators  never  have  been  known  to  buy  a “concession  ” for 
any  of  these.  Their  preconception  of  the  fate  of  a piece  seems 
really  to  be  a sixth  sense  with  them,  and  people  have  come  to 
look  upon  a large  preconcession  on  a play  as  an  absolute  guaran- 
tee of  its  success.  Superstitious  managers — and  managers  are 
always  more  or  less  superstitious — hardly  ever  omit  to  make  an 
arrangement  of  this  kind,  even  if  they  do  not  need  it.  And  they 
do  wisely ; what  they  may  lose  on  the  first  performance  is 
gained  by  the  long  run  the  play  will  have ; for,  the  more  interest 
the  speculators  have  in  it,  the  more  they  consequently  do  to  let 
everybody  understand  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  have 
seen  this  play  if  they  want  to  be  an  jour  with  what  happens  in 
Paris.  They  are  almighty.  Their  position  as  chiefs  of  the 
“ claque  ” may  be  of  less  importance,  but  they  have  an  under- 
standing of  how  to  advertise  a play  that  almost  amounts  to  art,  and 
they  have,  through  so  many  different  sources,  such  a hold  on  the 
press,  that  it  is  sometimes  hardly  more  than  their  blind  follower. 

All  through  the  winter  Paris  witnesses  great  theatre  successes 
that  are  perfectly  incomprehensible.  Given  in  any  other  country 


THE  A TEES.  ] 


»•» 

the  same  play  would  be  the  most  decided  failure,  and  yet  the 
Parisians  are  one  of  the  most  particular  and  artistic  of  all  people. 
One  tries  in  vain  to  understand  what  the  attraction  can  have 
been  in  this  tiresome  nonsense.  But  when  one  looks  into  le 
dessous  des  cartes , it  will  soon  be  found  that  a great  “ concession  ” 
has  been  made  to  the  speculators.  This  is  the  secret  of  the  suc- 


THE  TICKET  AGENT  IN  THE  SALOON  ROUND  THE  CORNER. 


cess  much  oftener  than  one  would  imagine.  But  apart  from  this 
one  arrangement  with  the  speculators,  the  managers  make  many 
others  with  these  great  men.  First  of  all  for  the  premieres.  It 
is  said  that  the  whole  house  is  given  away  to  Parisian  notabilities, 
and  it  has  become  a phrase  that  people  believe,  as  they  believe 
many  other  things,  without  questioning.  The  fact  is  that  at  one 
of  these  premieres  one  can  scan  the  whole  theatre  without  seeing 
more  than  a very  few  of  these  notabilities,  the  journalists  always 
excepted.  It  is  also  a fact  that,  in  spite  of  the  great  demand 
for  seats,  there  can  almost  always  be  had  tickets  in  the  saloon 


210 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


on  the  corner,  where  the  speculator’s  agent  has  a plan  of  the 
theatre  and  carries  on  his  business  openly.  The  available  seats 
are  even  so  numerous  that  one  can  have  almost  any  if  he  will  pay 
the  price.  However  good  the  speculator’s  connections  may  be, 
it  seems  almost  impossible  that  the  Parisian  notabilities  should 
offer  him  for  sale  the  tickets  given  them,  and  the  Theatre  Frangais 
premieres  prove  that  this  is  by  no  means  the  case.  He  never 
has  but  a few  seats  in  the  gallery  for  these.  It  is  one  of  the 
rules  of  this  theatre  that  these  tickets  shall  be  sold  in  the  even- 
ing at  the  office,  and  he  can  only  obtain  them  by  waiting  there 
from  the  early  morning.  They  are  all  willing  enough  to  do  that, 
for  after  all  it  pays ; even  if  one  cannot  see  much  from  the  gal- 
lery, there  is  always  some  young  man  ready  to  give  twenty  francs 
that  he  may  put  on  his  dress  suit — and  be  able  to  tell  that  he  has 
been  present  at  a premiere  in  the  Theatre  Frangais.  But  even  if 
an  American  millionaire  comes  to  Paris  expressly  to  see  a premiere 
of  one  of  Dumas’  or  Pailleron’s  pieces,  and  offers  several  thou- 
sand francs,  as  they  have  been  known  to  do,  for  a fauteuil,  it  is 
not  possible  for  him  to  get  any.  Parisian  notabilities  are  like  all 
others,  not  disposed  to  do  any  chaffering.  It  is  the  manager  that 
does  these  things,  and  the  tickets  given  away  for  the  premieres 
become  fewer  and  fewer.  He  knows  how  much  he  can  make  in 
such  an  evening  with  the  help  of  the  speculator,  and  he  needs 
this  extra  money  more  and  more  as  the  expenses  increase  with 
the  years.  All  the  tickets  that  he  can  dispose  of  are  sent  to  the 
saloon,  and  he  and  the  speculator  divide  the  profit.  The  premilre, 
that  formerly  brought  in  no  money  at  all,  now  brings  more  than 
any  of  the  other  performances. 

A fauteuil  to  Sardou’s  “ Theodora”  is  in  the  morning  worth 
three  hundred  francs,  and  the  sale  is  so  large  that  toward  even- 
ing five  hundred  francs  is  asked  for  one.  At  ordinary  premieres 
the  ticket  bought  in  the  saloon  costs  as  many  louis  d'or  as  it 
generally  costs  francs,  consequently  twenty  times  as  much.  On 
such’ occasions  people  only  talk  of  louis  d'or , and  do  not  mind 
how  much  money  they  spend.  They  like  to  show  themselves 
in  the  foyer  between  the  acts,  and  have  the  satisfaction  of 
being  thought  one  of  the  Parisian  notabilities  by  people  who  are 
as  common,  every-day  people  as  they  are  themselves.  If  the 
play  is  a success,  the  partnership  with  the  speculator  is  continued 


THE  A TRES. 


2 1 1 


through  a number  of  performances.  The  ticket-office  is  only 
opened  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  and  people  are,  however 
early  they  may  come,  met  with  the  astonishing  information  that 
everything  is  sold  for  the  first  fifteen  or  twenty  performances. 
Great  efforts  have  often  been  made  to  prevent  this,  and,  during 
the  Exposition  of  ’78,  the  manager  of  the  Op6ra,  Halanzier,  tried 
to  put  a stop  to  the  speculators’  enterprises. 

The  tickets  for  the  opera  were  always  sold  in 
advance.  It  was  impossible  to  get  any  at 
the  office,  while  at  the  same  time  a number 
of  persons  stood  outside  offering  reserved 
seats  for  sale  to  the  passers-by.  Halanzier 
forbade  the  functionaries  to  sell  tickets  to 
speculators  or  to  anybody  connected  with 
them.  The  police  offered  their  assistance, 
and  did  all  in  their  power  to  oppose  them, 
but  they  continued  their  traffic  in  spite  of 
everything.  It  was  then  decided  that  no 
ticket  should  be  given  out  if  the  buyer  did 
not  leave  name  and  address,  which  were  to  be 
written  on  the  ticket,  a precaution  that  was 
later  adopted  by  the  other  three  private  thea- 
tres. People  came  in  equipages  with  many- 
colored  decorations  in  their  buttonholes ; 
they  proved  their  right  to  their  titles  and  left 
their  address,  and  they  received  tickets  that  on 
the  very  same  evening  were  sold  outside  of  the 
theatre.  Halanzier  then  watched  over  the 
sale  and  signed  the  tickets  himself.  Boxes  were  demanded  under 
renowned  names  on  paper  with  initials  and  authentic  signatures. 
Equipages,  names,  paper,  signatures,  all  came  from  the  same 
place,  and  were  used  by  an  ingenious  speculator,  who,  in  spite 
of  all  these  expenses  in  the  six  months  of  the  Exposition,  made 
a fortune  of  300,000  francs.  His  colleagues  are  not  less  shrewd, 
but  since  then  the  partnership  with  the  managers  has  opened 
new  prospects  for  them,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  is  done  to  destroy 
it,  the  business  will  flourish  while  Paris  is  still  filled  with  foreign- 
ers who  offer  thousands  to  see  and  be  seen  at  a premiire. 


H U 


MONSIEUR  MUST 
CESSARILY  BE 
JOUR.” 


NE- 
‘ AU 


XXI. 

The  Theatre  Fran^ais  “Republic.” 


IT  is  not  only  the  plays  given  in  the  Theatre  Frangais,  nor  the 
way  in  which  they  are  brought  on  the  stage,  that  makes  this 
institution  so  unique.  It  has  another  still  more  remarkable 
point  of  interest:  its  form  of  management.  While  the  Republic 
passes  from  one  crisis  to  the  other  with  everything  else  in  Paris, 
this  play-house  continues  to  reign  quietly  here,  as  sure  of  its 
future  as  it  is  proud  of  its  past.  It  is  an  uplifting  and  comfort- 
ing sight  for  all  brave  republicans.  When  the  Phrygian  cap  has 
been  able  to  gather  the  actors,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  it  will  not 
be  long  before  it  will  unite  all  ordinary  people.  The  Theatre 
Frangais  is  a true  republic ; its  chief  does  not  even  have  the  title 
of  “ directeur,”  but  is  simply  called  “Administrateur  de  la  Conit- 
die  Franqaise."  He  is  the  president,  but  by  no  means  the  ruler; 
the  ruling  power  is  in  the  hand  of  the  socittaires,  the  pillars  of 
this  stage,  who  are  not  only  engaged  for  a certain  number  of 
years,  but  who  cannot  be  discharged  before  they  send  in  their 


aia 


THE  THEATRE  FRANQAIS  “ REPUBLIC .” 


213 


resignation  in  old  age  and  live  on  their  pension,  and  who,  besides 
the  ordinary  salary,  get  a considerable  percentage  of  the  income 
of  the  theatre.  This  arrangement  was  originally  made  after  the 
Revolution ; the  main  part  of  the  two  societies  into  which  les 
comMiens  Fran^ais  had  been  divided  decided  to  continue  to 
play  under  the  control  of  the  government,  but,  in  fact,  at  their 
own  expense  and  risk.  The  joint  stock  consisted  of  twenty-five 
shares,  that  were  to  belong  to  the  members,"  les  socittaires."  Cer- 
tain by-laws  were  made,  and  according  to  one  of  them  every 
actor  who  became  a member  received  at  once  a quarter  share.  In 
1803  the  State  granted  them  100,000  francs,  and  increased  the 
amount  little  by  little,  until  at  last,  in  1856,  it  had  reached  as  far 
as  240,000,  the  sum  that  is  still 
given.  In  return  for  this  help 
the  government  demanded  the 
right  to  superintend  the  man- 
agement, a sort  of  presidency 
over  the  republic.  But  as  well 
in  the  famous  Moscow  decree, 
given  by  Napoleon  from  his 
headquarters  in  Russia  in  1812, 
as  in  the  modifications  made  in 
1850  and  ’59  by  his  nephew,  the 
original  association  was  always 
named  as  the  basis  of  the  organ- 
ization. Pensionnctires  are  en- 
gaged for  a certain  number  of 
years  and  on  the  usual  terms, 
but  this  position  is  generally 
only  a transitional  one,  for,  as 
soon  as  their  talent  has  been 
sufficiently  proved,  they  are 
made  socFtaires,  first  with  a 
quarter  of  a share,  and  later, 
when  their  light  shines  in  all  its 
glory,  with  the  entire  share.  There  are  still  twenty-five  of  these, 
and  one  share  gives,  besides  the  yearly  salary  of  twelve  thousand 
francs,  a percentage  of  the  profit.  Half  of  this  sum  is  deposited, 
the  other  half  paid  out,  and  this  may,  in  a fortunate  year,  be  so 


REICHEMBERG. 


214 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


great  that  the  highest  societaires  have  had  an  income  of  sixty 
thousand  francs.  The  interest  of  the  money  deposited  is  used 
for  the  pensions,  and  the  principal  sum  is  paid  out  to  the  socie- 
taire  when  he  leaves  the  stage.  He  has  a right  to  resign  after 


twenty  years’  service, 
and  his  pension  is 
then  five  thousand 
francs  a year,  to 
which  is  added  two 
hundred  francs  for 
every  year  he  remains 
beyond  these  twenty; 
when  to  this  is 
added  the  principal, 
he  is  guarded  against 
material  need.  It  is, 
however,  seldom  that 
he  leaves  at  the  end 
of  the  twenty  years. 
The  air  at  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais  seems  to 
have  the  qualities  of 
the  fountain  of 
youth.  Delaunay 
was  past  sixty  when 
he  still  charmed  the 


BROISSAT. 


public  as  a romantic  lover,  and  actresses  like  Reichemberg  and 
Broissat  continue  to  look  eighteen  years  old  through  long 
decennaries.  If,  however,  they  want  to  retire  while  they  are 
still  young,  nobody  can  prevent  them  from  having  their  pen- 
sion and  capital,  but  they  are,  of  course,  obliged  not  to  make 
their  appearance  on  any  other  stage  in  Paris. 

The  laws  of  the  Fran^ais  do  not  only  give  the  societaires  a 
right  to  its  gold,  but  also  to  a share  in  the  government  of  the 
theatre.  L' admhiistrateur general,  appointed  by  the  State,  super- 
intends the  business  matters,  while  all  that  relates  to  the  art  is 
decided  by  the  societaires,  through  a committee  consisting  of  six 
members  and  two  deputies.  It  is  this  committee  that,  through 
le  semainier , a different  member  for  each  week,  maintains  the 


215 


THE  GREEN-ROOM  AT  THE  THEATRE  FRANCA1S. 


21 6 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


order  in  Molidre’s  house,  and  guides  the  rehearsals,  and  the 
same  that  elects  the  new  societaires,  so  that  the  administrator’s 
voice  is  the  deciding  one  only  in  case  the  other  voices  should  be 
equally  divided.  The  repertoire  is  never  decided  upon  without 
the  advice  of  this  committee,  that  also  decides  whether  the 
pieces  sent  in  should  be  accepted  or  not.  The  committee  is,  of 
course,  not  able  to  read  all  the  manuscripts  sent  in  by  benevolent 
authors,  who  leave  dozens  of  them  every  day  with  the  concierge. 
They  are,  therefore,  sent  to  a trustworthy  person,  who,  after  a 
more  or  less  hasty  perusal  of  the  work,  decides  whether  it  would 
be  good  to  submit  it  to  a closer  trial.  This  is  generally  not  the 
case,  and  after  a few  weeks  the  masterpiece  is  sent  back  to  the 
author,  carefully  wrapped  up  and  accompanied  by  an  amiable 
little  letter,  stating  in  the  most  courteous  way  that  his  piece  was 
most  excellent,  but  that  for  some  reason  or  other  it  was  not  ex- 
actly suited  for  the  house  of  Molifere.  He  has  this  document 
framed  and  is  happy  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  He  may  sometimes 
even,  by  its  help,  after  a long  and  patient  perseverance,  suc- 
ceed in  being  played  at  the  Ambassadeurs  or  at  /’ Horloge.  But, 
if  for  some  reason  or  other  it  is  decided  that  he  should  be 
executed  with  greater  solemnity,  his  manuscript  is  sent  to  the 
societaires'  committee.  This  worthy  areopagus  meets,  and  he  re- 
ceives an  invitation  to  present  himself  and  read  his  piece  aloud. 
The  theatre  has  for  this  especial  purpose  a sombre  hall,  with  the 
portraits  of  all  the  departed  great  masters,  where  the  solemn 
act  takes  place.  Quietly  and  patiently  these  gentlemen  listen  to 
the  reading,  however  long  it  maybe,  and  immediately  afterwards 
the  votes  are  taken  without  any  previous  conference.  In  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  the  vetoes  are  in  absolute  majority,  and  in  the 
tenth  the  acceptation  is  generally  followed  by  the  condition  that 
it  be  done,  “ a correction .”  Sometimes  this  may  be  very  well 
meant ; they  may  have  found  one  of  the  parts  worth  playing,  may 
have  discovered  some  good  ideas  that  would  show  themselves  to 
better  advantage  if  the  form  were  changed  ; but  as  a rule  “it  cor- 
rection ” is  but  a civil  phrase,  an  easy  way  of  saying  yes,  when  they 
mean  no.  They  may  have  to  do  with  an  author  with  whom  it 
might  be  well  to  be  on  a good  footing,  and  are  consequently 
afraid  of  hurting  his  feelings.  He  is  then — while  they  appreciate 
the  excellence  of  his  work  to  the  utmost — asked  to  make  a few 


217 


THE  THEATRE  FRANQAIS  “REPUBLIC." 


small  modifications.  They  want  him  to  put  to  the  right  what  he 
had  put  to  the  left,  to  have  a few  of  the  principal  characters  re- 
modeled, the  plot  changed,  etc.  When  these  few  changes  are 
done  the  author  is  asked  to  read  it  once  more,  and  his  play  is 
again  accepted,  but  unfortunately  only — cl  correction.  The  same 
worthy  superiority  repeats  itself  everywhere  in  Moli&re’s  house  ; 
it  is  over  the  outward  appearance  as  well  as  over  all  the  actions 
of  the  theatre  republic. 

The  building  is  noble,  even  a little  venerable,  without  any 
tendency  to  being  conspicuous  ; all  the  rooms  are  elegant,  comme 
il  faiit , and  free  from  any  trace  of  opera  magnificence  ; from  the 
vestibule,  with  the  imposing  marble  statues,  to  the  foyer,  with 
Houdon’s  incomparable  Voltaire,  and  the  ad- 
joining gallery,  where  the  heroes  of  French 
literature  look  down  from  their  twisted  socles, 
it  is  so  awe-inspiring  that 
people  involuntarily  soften 
their  steps  on  the  polished 
floors.  Everybody  has  a supe- 
rior air,  from  the*  porter  in  his 
green  coat,  who  stands  as  a 
Cerberus  outside  of  the  ad- 
ministration entry,  to  keep  all 
profaners  at  a distance,  and  les 
huissiers  in  knickerbockers 
and  long  silver  chains,  to  the 
audience  who  assembles  there  in  the  real  season.  In  the  sum- 
mer, during  the  invasion  of  foreigners,  one  may  see  red 
Bsedeckers  and  gray  traveling  dresses,  even  in  the  Theatre  Fran- 
cis, but  the  Parisian,  when  he  comes  there,  never  allows  himself 
such  a profanation.  He  may  sit  in  his  fauteuil  and  yawn  over 
Racine  and  Corneille,  but  he  always  sits  there  in  a costume 
worthy  of  his  surroundings.  For,  although  the  Theatre  Fran- 
9ais  is  a republic,  it  is  an  aristocratic  republic,  with  the  exquisite 
manners  and  Athenian  style  that  belongs  to  the  Seine  capital. 
This  may  be  the  reason  that  success  crowns  the  house  of  Moli£re, 
which  can  teach  the  great  republic  how  to  behave  itself  if  it 
wants  to  flourish. 


XXII. 

The  Diva  of  the  Eighties. 


lyj^ADAME  JUDIC  has, 


without  exception, 
been  the  favorite  diva  of  the 
Parisian  theatre  world  dur- 
ing the  past  decennary. 

Sarah  Bernhardt’s  star  had 
reached  its  zenith  already  in 
the  seventies,  and  when  the 
serious  war  shadows  began 
to  disperse,  and  the  light 
Parisian  liumor  once  more 
made  its  entry  into  the  city, 
it  was  perhaps  more  than 
a mere  whim  that  sent  the 
great  tragedienne  on  her 
tournee  in  the  old  and  new 
worlds.  The  taste  once  more 
became  that  of  the  last  days 
of  the  Empire,  and  it  was 
Hortense  Schneider’s  fol- 
lower that  was  lifted  on  the 
pedestal  of  Parisian  admiration  ; and  the  new  queen  proved  vvorthy 
of  her  throne.  Judic’s  art  is  not  superior, — superior  art  does  not, 
on  the  whole,  belong  to  the  eighties, — but  it  is  true  Parisian,  and 
will,  because  of  this,  extend  beyond  the  decennary  that  was  the 
witness  of  her  first  triumphs.  It  is  about  twenty  years  ago  that 
she  prepared  for  her  first  battle  to  conquer  the  Parisians,  and  she 
was  only  seventeen  years  old.  She  commenced  full  of  enthusi- 
asm, dreaming  of  the  promised  land  her  art  should  lead  her  into. 
It  is  this  faith  in  success  that  is  the  artist’s  religion,  that  helps  him 
through  all  defeats,  and  brings  him  victory  at  last,  and  the 

218 


JUDIC. 


THE  DIVA  OF  THE  EIGHTIES. 


219 


greater  he  is,  the  more  fervent  this  faith.  It  had  been  hard  to 
obtain  permission  to  knock  at  the  door  of  this  promised  land,  but 
she  had  been  drawn  toward  it  from  her  earliest  years ; she  had 
grown  up  just  outside  of  it.  Her  mother,  a niece  of  Montigny, 
was  Billettrice  at  the  Theatre  du  Gymnase  and  her  eldest  sister 
sat  at  the  desk  in  the  theatre  cafe.  She  was  there  from  morning 
till  night,  its  adopted  daughter  and  spoiled  child.  The  elite  of  the 
guests, — Augier,  Sandeau,  Gozlau,  Bayard,  Lambert,  Thiboust,  ’ 
Scholl,  Bressant,  Roqueplan,  Geoffroy,  Landrol, — adored  little 
Anna  Damiens,  their  wild,  dark-curled  bambinetta  d' 'amove,  that 
ran  around  and  cheered  them  with  her  fresh  laugh  and  large 
black  eyes.  She  could  never  have  become  anything  but  just 
what  she  became,  and  nobody  doubted  her  vocation.  Lesueur 
ordained  her.  One  evening  he  poured  a few  drops  from  his  glass 
over  the  little  head  that  had  hidden  in  his  lap,  and  said,  “I 
baptize  you  an  actress.  Grow  up,  make  your  debut,  and  fight 
your  way.  I prophesy  that  you  will  draw  the  whole  of  Paris  to 
the  theatre.”  The  then  ten-year-old  child  remembered  these 
words,  and  knew  from  that  moment  what  she  wanted  to  be.  The 
plans  of  her  parents  were,  however,  different.  They  sent  her  to 
a lingerie  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  but  she  was  not  to  be 
conquered.  She  first  refused  to  eat,  and  really  starved  for  two 
days,  so  that  her  mother  was  obliged  to  take  her  out  of  the  sew- 
ing-school, and  when  the  experiment  was  repeated  she  swore  that 
she  would  commit  suicide  if  she  were  not  allowed  to  go  on  the 
stage.  The  matter  was  put  before  Montigny,  who  decided  that 
it  could  not  do  any  harm  to  try  her  to  see  if  she  had  any  talent. 
He  sent  her  to  the  Conservatory,  and  made  her  study  under  Reg- 
nier,  but  this  was  not  what  she  had  dreamt  of.  The  Alexan- 
drines bored  her,  and  to  get  rid  of  them  she  made  a bold  stroke  of 
genius, — she  married.  M.  Judic,  who  has  left  her  a widow,  was 
no  genius  ; he  never  took  any  other  part  in  her  artistic  life  than 
that  of  being  her  husband.  But  he  helped  her  faithfully  over  the 
trials  of  poverty,  and  the  first  disappointments,  and  made  later  a 
splendid  business  manager.  She  had  a son  and  a daughter,  now 
almost  grown  up,  and  she  led  a quiet  bourgeois  life  that  gave  her 
the  great  quietude  necessary  to  develop  an  artistic  nature,  and 
ripen  the  fine,  finished  art  that  is  Judic’s  greatest  charm.  A mar- 
ried woman,  even  if  only  seventeen,  could  not,  of  course,  go  to 


220 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


school;  she  left  Regnier,  and  her  Uncle  Montigny  gave  her, as  a 
wedding-present,  a promise  of  her  debut  and  an  engagement  at 
twelve  hundred  francs  a year.  The  great  day  came  ; it  was  the 
opening  day  of  the  season,  September  i,  1867,  that  she  made  her 
debut  in  a vaudeville  drama  by  Cadol  and  Busnach,  as  Rachel 
had  made  her  debut  thirty  years  before  on  the  same  stage,  in  a 
similar  play  and  a similar  part.  Although  Judic  did  not  meet 
with  an  absolute  failure,  her  debut  passed  as  unnoticed  as 
Rachel’s  had  done.  Nobody  discovered  in  her  the  future  diva. 
They  thought,  at  the  utmost,  that  she  might  be  used,  and  her  uncle 
assigned  her  the  parts  accordingly.  She  had  quite  a good  many, 
but  one  was  more  serious  and  tiresome  than  the  other.  She  had, 
fortunately,  her  honeymoon  to  keep  up  her  spirits,  and,  apart 
from  that,  many  good  friends.  Celine  Chaumont’s  husband  was 
one  of  them  ; he  was  something  of  a musician,  and  wrote  little 
witty  songs  which  Madame  Judic  sang,  and  she  did  this  so  well 
that  her  friends  got  an  idea ; they  were  sure  she  would  succeed 
as  a cafd-chantant  singer.  There  was  felt  no  prejudice  against 
this  profession.  In  the  Parisian  art  world  every  line  is  respected 
if  only  the  work  done  proves  itself  superior. 

M.  Judic  was  slightly  acquainted  with  the  manager  of  the 
Eldorado,  who  tried  his  wife  and  engaged  her  on  terms  that  were 
considered  splendid.  She  was  to  have  four  hundred  francs  a 
month  for  the  first  year,  five  hundred  the  next,  and  six  hundred 
the  third.  But  the  manager  made  it  a condition  that  he  could  give 
her  notice  to  leave  after  the  first  month  if  not  satisfied.  He  did 
not  do  this,  however.  Madame  Judic’s  second  debut  was  very 
different  from  her  first.  She  sang  a little  song  called  “ La  pre- 
miere feuille , ” and  created  with  it  the  style  she  now  excels  in. 
With  an  innocent,  childlike  laughter,  she  threw  the  kernels  of  the 
forbidden  fruit  in  the  very  face  of  the  audience.  It  was  subau- 
dition raised  to  art,  and  this  suited  the  taste  of  the  Parisians. 
They  all  wanted  to  hear  Judic  at  the  Eldorado,  as  they  had  for- 
merly wanted  to  hear  Ther^se.  Everybody  would  write  songs 
and  monologues  for  her  ; in  every  concert  hall  they  tried  to 
sing  in  Judic’s  way;  the  star  had  not  only  risen,  but  had  also 
found  satellites.  It  was  not  difficult  to  see  now  that  she  could 
be  used  outside  of  the  tribune,  but  the  Eldorado  manager  would 
not  let  go  of  his  treasure,  and  it  was  the  war  that  broke  her 


THE  DIVA  OF  THE  EIGHTIES. 


221 


•ngagement  as  it  had  broken  so  many  others.  After  that,  all 
managers  and  authors  wanted  her.  Sardou  and  Offenbach  con- 
quered ; she  undertook  to  create  the  success  of  the  fairy  play 
“ Roi  Carotte,”  at  the  Gait6.  The  play  not  being  quite  finished, 
she  played  at  the  Folies  Bergbres,  that  was  just  opened,  and  gave, 
with  a few  songs,  to  the  establishment  a reputation  of  Parisianism 
which  it  has  kept  ever  since, 
in  spite  of  the  horrible  non- 
sense that  has  reigned  there. 

The  Parisians  remember  her 
song  “Ne  me  chatouillez  pas  ” to 
this  day,  as  they  remember  all 
her  later  triumphs;  they  have 
never  seen  any  greater  and  more 
uninterrupted.  Wherever  she 
came  she  was  favored  by  for- 
tune, and  filled  the  house  and 
the  cash-box.  The  greatest 
nonsense  would  create  a success 
when  she  sang  it.  In  this  way 
she  went  from  the  Gait<§  to  the 
Bouffes,  and  from  the  Bouffes  to 
theVari£t£s.  Whatshehasmade 
out  of  “Niniche,  ” of  “ Rous- 
sotte,”  of  “ Femme  h Papa,” 

“ Lili,”  “Mile.  Nitouche”  and 
“La  Cosaque,”  all  written  ex- 
pressly for  her,  is  really  unique 
in  the  theatre  history  of  Paris. 

While  she  is  continually  keep- 
ing up  this  repertoire,  she  has 

01  . JUDIC  AS  “MLLE.  NITOUCHE. 

commenced  to  give  a new 

glory  to  the  old  Offenbach  op£rettes,  and  since  the  Varie- 
tes  manager  has  undertaken  the  management  of  the  Eden,  she 
has  also  had  her  great  triumphs  there  as  “ Madame  Angot’s 
daughter.  ” What  she  excels  in  is  execution  ; this  has  always 
been  the  strength  of  the  Parisians.  They  do  not  generally  have 
much  voice,  but  although  they  lack  musical  education,  and 
hardly  have  any  understanding  of  music,  they  know  how  to  hum 


222 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


their  little  songs  with  incomparable  soul  and  charm.  And  it  is 
this  talent  that  Madame  Judic  has  developed  to  a point  which 
has  never  been,  and  never  will  be  surpassed.  She  plays  well,  and 
her  parts,  always  written  for  her,  and  suited  to  her  disposition, 
give  her  occasion  to  show  new  ability,  but  the  songs  are  never- 
theless the  center  of  her  performance.  Beautiful  as  she  still  is, 
with  a finished  mimic  art,  and  an  irresistible  smile  and  large 
expressive  eyes,  that  she  lifts  and  casts  down  in  a way  of  her  own, 
she  stands  before  the  footlights  and  the  audience  is  captivated  at 
the  first  stanza.  Her  way  of  saying  the  words  is  so  pointed, 
covering  up  in  a peculiar  way  all  the  little  allusions  inseparable 
from  a Judic  song,  and  yet  so  explaining,  so  telling  in  its  merri- 
ment, that  people  are  doubled  up  with  laughter  before  the  song 
is  through.  Even  those  who  do  not  understand  the  words  are 
able  to  follow  it.  Judic’s  song  is  the  cover  thrown  over  what 
could  not  very  well  be  said  clearly,  and  in  this  way  her  songs  can 
be  heard  by  everybody ; even  the  boarding-school  principals  in 
Passy  send  their  young  girls  to  the  Varietes  to  hear  Judic. 

Having  reached  the  summit  of  admiration,  she  has  always 
obtained  the  highest  salaries.  Her  managers  make  her  pay  two 
thousand  francs  for  every  evening  that  she  renounces  on  going 
abroad  to  make  millions.  She  is  very  rich  now,  and  it  is  not 
only  in  this  respect  that  her  life  for  the  last  twenty  years  has 
been  like  a fairy  tale.  When  she  married  they  were  in  very 
straitened  circumstances.  Before  her  debut  at  the  Eldorado 
it  was  a great  treat  if  she  could  make  ten  francs  by  singing  at  an 
Orph^on  concert,  and  she  has  more  than  once,  when  she  returned 
from  the  Gymnase  with  her  husband,  stopped  outside  of  the 
charcuterie  windows  and  whispered  to  him  how  well  a piece  of 
the  pastry  in  there  would  taste  with  the  dry  bread  that  awaited 
them  at  home.  When  she  returns  from  the  theatre  now,  she 
rides  in  her  own  carriage,  with  her  coachman  and  man-servant, 
to  her  mansion  in  the  Rue  Nouvelle,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most 
artistically  and  luxuriously  arranged  houses  in  Paris.  The  walls 
are  covered  with  Gobelin  tapestries,  made  expressly  for  them ; 
the  reception  room  is  as  large  as  a church  hall  and  filled  with  the 
many  extravagant  and  very  expensive  knick-knacks  that  modern 
Parisian  taste  demands  in  a well-furnished  house.  The  dining- 
room is-a  museum  of  pitchers  and  mugs  in  the  renaissance  style. 


JUDIC  S DRESSING-ROOM  AT  THE  EDEN  THEA 


223 


224 


PARIS  OP  TO-DAY. 


She  rents  a summer  residence,  a beautiful  castle  in  Chatou,  with 
a park  that  goes  down  to  the  Seine.  Even  her  room  in  the 
theatre  is  an  Eldorado  of  costliness  and  refined  taste.  At  the 
Vari£t6s  it  was,  unfortunately,  very  small,  so  that  she  rented  a 
room  in  the  Passage  des  Panoramas,  in  the  house  adjoining  the 
theatre,  had  it  covered  with  light  blue  silk,  and  spent  her  time 
between  the  acts  there. 

But  at  the  Eden  the  manager  has  been  able  to  put  at  her  dis- 
posal one  of  the  former  foyers  of  the  first  floor,  a large  room, 
where  the  walls  disappear  under  a confusion  of  Japanese 
draperies,  where  there  is  always  a smell  of  roses  and  lilacs,  and 
where  the  light  from  the  little  Edison  lamps  is  reflected  in  a 
multitude  of  glasses.  Before  the  table  in  this  salon  sits,  every 
evening,  a doll  dressed  in  the  very  costume  worn  by  Judic  on  the 
stage  ; it  is  made  to  look  like  her  and  all  the  effects  of  the 
different  costumes  are  tried  on  it.  Next  to  that  is  the  dressing- 
room,  behind  a large  screen  of  black  silk,  covered  with  all  kinds 
of  exotic  figures  in  many  colored  embroidery.  The  main  piece 
of  furniture  in  this  room  is  the  large  fire-proof  safe,  where  her 
jewels  are  kept.  It  is  immense,  with  heraldic  iron  mountings  and 
a combination  as  mystical  as  if  it  were  invented  in  the  Middle 
Ages.  When  Madame  Judic  opens  this  safe,  it  reveals  treasures 
like  those  of  the  Arabian  Nights, — diamonds,  sapphires,  emeralds, 
and  rubies, — and  she  covers  herself  with  these  ornaments  before 
she  goes  on  the  stage,  fastens  aigrettes  in  her  hair,  rows  of 
diamonds  around  her  neck,  and  puts  on  stars  and  pins.  But,  for 
her  the  theatre  is  one  existence,  and  life  outside  is  another.  She 
hardly  ever  wears  a single  ornament  in  private  life  and  is  still  a 
type  of  a French  bourgeoise.  She  amuses  herself  making  her 
own  bonnets,  as  she  did  when  she  lived  in  a garret  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Fid£lit6,  and  it  may  even  happen  that  she  receives  her  callers 
with  thread  and  needle  in  her  hand,  occupied  with  mending  her 
children’s  clothes.  She  never  wears  luxurious  costumes,  and  it 
was  hard  for  her  at  last  to  be  obliged  to  give  up  her  traditional 
blue  waterproof  and  black  merino  dress.  When  she  put  them 
away,  she  said,  in  excuse,  “ What  can  I do  ? Since  I have  my  own 
carriage,  I am  obliged  to  dress.  I know  my  coachman ; he 
would  refuse  to  drive  for  me  if  I were  not  decently  dressed.” 


XXIII. 

Rising  Stars. 


DRAMATIC  artists  are  said,  of  all  art- 
ists, to  be  the  only  ones  that  die  alto- 
gether. Authors  and  composers,  painters, 
sculptors,  and  architects  all  leave  works, 
which  for  the  coming  generations  stand  as 
living  proofs  of  their  genius.  But  even  of 
the  very  greatest  actors  there 
is  nothing  left  behind  but  the 
grave  that  closed  over  them  for 
ever.  This  theory  is  a little 
lame.  The  poor  dramatic  art- 
ists are  less 
to  be  pitied 
than  people 
would  fain 
make  one 
believe.  In 
certain  re- 
spec  t s it 
may  even  be 
said  that 
they  are  the 
only  ones 
sure  of  im- 
m o r t ality. 

A 1 1 other 
greatnesses 

are  continually  discussed  ; those  of  the  stage,  only,  are,  when  once 
canonized,  forever  unassailable.  Posterity  can  read  the  author’s 
work  and  shrug  its  shoulders  at  the  ideas  and  forms  that  are  no 
more  current,  but  the  laurels  are  still  left  on  the  actor’s  brow, 
perhaps  even  fresher  than  when  he  lived.  Criticism  cannot 

225 


SITTING  IN  JUDGMENT. 


226 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


reach  him ; there  is  nothing  left  of  his  work  that  it  can  attack ; 
one  is  obliged  to  take  the  evidence  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
his  fame  only  increases  the  older  this  evidence  becomes.  It  is  a 
fact  that  true  immortality  consists  in  exercising  the  same  influence 
over  the  coming  generations  as  over  one’s  own  ; to  fill  them  with 
one’s  ideas  and  views,  and  to  this  immortality  the  actors  cannot, 
of  course,  aspire.  The  ideas  have  to  be  brought  forth  in  order 
to  be  stamped  with  a personality,  and  it  is  the  art  of  the  actor 
to  disguise  himself.  What  he  aspires  to  is  to  win  applause  with- 
out criticism,  and  of  this  he  is  surer  after  his  death  than  during  his 
life.  But  it  is  necessary  that  there  should  have  been  a full  under- 
standing between  him  and  his  audience,  that  he  has  not  left  any 
of  its  demands  unfulfilled,  but  has  met  them  face  to  face.  There 
is  no  room  on  the  stage  for  misjudged  geniuses.  All  his  con- 
temporaries must  have  looked  upon  him  as  an  ideal,  superhuman 
being  who  personified  everybody’s  dreams  of  the  noble  and  beau- 
tiful. Only  the  actor  after  whom  all  little  girls  have  named 
their  favorite  cats  and  later  on  their  children,  only  the  actress  in 
whose  triumphal  procession  all  the  young  generation  has  taken 
part,  may  hope  to  shine  as  a fixed  star  on  the  dramatic  firma- 
ment. There  are  as  few  stars  of  this  kind  in  the  Parisian  heavens 
now,  as  there  are  anywhere  else.  The  shop  windows  might  give 
one  the  impression  of  a multitude  of  multitudes.  But  even  be- 
fore photography  was  invented,  the  priests  and  priestesses  of  the 
stage  have  looked  upon  the  frequent  immortalization  of  their 
feature  as  one  of  the  duties  of  their  profession,  and  since  the 
grasshopper  swarms  of  photographers  have  inundated  the  coun- 
try, every  young  miss  that  has  shown  herself  only  once  in  the  magic 
light  of  the  stage,  thinks  that  her  life  is  by  this  event  made  so 
universally  interesting  that  she  must  show  herself  off  in  a photo- 
graph. The  pictures  of  General  Boulanger,  Jules  Ferry,  Alphonse 
Daudet,  or  Meissonnier  disappear  so  entirely  in  a multitude  of 
theatre  princesses,  more  or  less  dtcolletdes,  that  only  these  last 
attract  the  eye,  and  picture  to  the  stranger  the  heights  of  the 
glory  of  the  Seine  capital.  But  the  greater  majority  of  these 
are  more  ddcolletees  than  they  are  talented.  Many  actresses  with 
a dramatic  career  before  them  look  upon  it  as  an  ambitious  man 
does  on  the  journalistic  career.  They  are  both  a kind  of  open- 
ing, one  to  the  minister’s  palace,  the  prefecture,  or  at  least  to  the 


RISING  STARS. 


227 


“ affaires  ” that  pay,  the  other  to  having  a house  of  one’s  own, 
an  equipage,  and  somebody  to  furnish  the  pin-money.  Mel- 


pomene’s cult,  especially,  has,  during  the  last  years,  not  lacked 
prominent  priestesses. 

Since  Sarah  Bernhardt  ventured  out  on  the  intricate  ways  of 
her  travels,  the  Theatre  Frangais  has,  of  course,  once  in  a while 
brought  out  a classical  French  tragedy,  with  a more  or  less  tal- 
ented young  actress  ; but  it  has,  nevertheless,  decidedly  missed 


228 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


its  great  tragic  prima  donna.  Only  in  Aim£e  Tessandier,  the 
latest  addition  to  its  staff,  it  seems  to  have  found  one  capable  of 
filling  the  void.  It  is  said  that  Tessandier,  when  she  had  signed 
the  contract  that  was  to  bind  her  to  the  Theatre  Frangais, 
dropped  her  pen  and  burst  into  tears.  This  emotion  is  easier  to 
understand  in  her  case  than  in  many  others.  The  heart  is 
always  moved  when  one  is  conscious  of  the  realization  of  all 
one’s  dreams  of  youth  ; but  it  is  still  more  moved  the  longer  the 
way  has  been  that  led  to  the  aim.  And  for  Tessandier,  it  was 
very  long.  Nobody  has  commenced  a career,  much  less  a dra- 
matic career,  as  low  down  physically  and  morally,  as  she  did. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a poor  laborer  in  Bordeaux,  and  her 
childhood  was  passed  in  that  city  as  best  it  might,  with  the  chil- 
dren in  the  street,  ragged  and  barefooted.  When  she  grew  to 
the  age  when  one  began  to  notice  her  black  eyes  and  fiery  bru- 
nette beauty,  she  was  drawn  into  the  life  for  which  her  child- 
hood had  prepared  her,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  was  one 
of  the  first  in  Cythere’s  ranks.  She  was,  however,  all  the  time 
kept  up  by  a burning  longing  for  an  artistic  career,  that  was 
strong  enough  to  make  her  tired  of  the  life  she  led,  and  she  was 
drawn  irresistibly  to  the  stage.  She  commenced  studying  with 
Wable,  an  old,  very  well  known  actor,  and  suddenly  the  rumor 
spread  that  she  was  to  make  her  debut  at  the  Theatre  Frangais 
of  Bordeaux.  It  awakened  a sensation  that  is  still  remembered 
in  that  city ; the  manager  knew  that  it  would,  and  put  the  debu- 
tante’s name  in  large  letters  on  the  placards,  without  considering 
how  well  known  it  was  already,  and  that  he  thereby  supported 
those  who  looked  upon  her  debut  as  an  attempt  on  her  part  to 
attract  still  more  attention.  The  theatre  was  filled  for  the 
premiere.  The  play  was  “ La  Dame  aux  Cam^lias.”  As  soon  as 
the  new  Marguerite  made  her  appearance  she  was  received  with 
a storm  of  hisses  and  cries ; rotten  apples  and  potatoes  were 
thrown  on  the  stage,  but  Tessandier  stood  calm,  although 
deathly  pale,  and  waited.  When,  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  the 
noise  ceased  a little,  she  tried  to  say  the  first  words  of  her  lines. 
But  this  was  only  the  signal  for  a new  tumult.  She  waited  once 
more,  and  it  continued.  In  this  way  through  all  the  five  acts, 
every  time  she  attempted  to  speak  the  commotion  broke  out 
again.  From  a performance  like  this  nobody  could,  of  course, 


RISING  STARS. 


229 


form  any  opinion  of  her  talent,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  see 
what  might  be  expected  from  a will-power  like  hers.  It  did  not 
last  very  long  either,  before  she  forced  people  to  listen  to  her, 
and  not  only  in  Bordeaux. 

She  soon  came  to  Paris,  and  from  different  stages  she  finally 
reached  the  Od6on,  where  she  was  in  her  right  place,  when 
Shakespeare’s  plays  were  brought  out.  After  having  seen  her  as 
Desdemona  the  critics  said 
that  France  had  a new 
tragedienne  of  high  rank, 
and  the  performances  that 
followed  made  the  public 
of  the  same  opinion.  One 
winter  she  played  Lady 
Macbeth  at  the  Od6on, 
immediately  after  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  who  had  taken 
the  same  character  at  the 
Porte  Saint  Martin,  and 
it  was  indisputably  Tes- 
sandierwho  carried  off  the 
palm.  Her  outward  ap- 
pearance gives  her  a great 
advantage  over  many  of 
her  predecessors.  She  has 
a majestic  bearing,  her 
head  has  the  southern 
classical  beauty,  and  there 
is  over  her  whole  person  a 
grandeur  and  ardor  that  is  of  great  assistance  to  her  in  her  art. 
The  energy  with  which  she  commenced  her  career  has  developed 
into  an  earnest  love  for  her  profession;  she  lives  her  part  as 
nobody  else ; her  soul  is  in  it,  not  only  in  the  scenes  where 
she  knows  that  she  can  incite  enthusiasm  in  her  audience,  but 
even  in  the  slightest  speech  with  which  it  is  impossible  to 
create  any  great  effect,  and  her  tears  are  of  the  kind  that  really 
roll  down  the  cheeks.  Her  talent  may  possibly  yet  have  some 
rough  corners;  it  has  never  been  trained  in  the  Conserva- 
tory, but  she  is  by  nature  formed  for  tragedy,  and  it  is  a talent 


230 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


like  hers  that  was  needed  to  bring  French  tragedy  back  to  its 
old  glory. 

Comedy  has,  however,  always  been  more  favored  by  Parisians  ; 
they  prefer  laughing  to  crying,  and  on  this  field  star  has  fol- 
lowed upon  star  with  unchanging  lustre.  Jeanne  Granier  came 
after  Judic  and  conquered  the  throne.  She  is  the  incarnation 
of  the  old  French  spirit,  and  it  was  more  than  an  accident  that 
the  part  in  which  her  talent  broke  forth  was  the  little  duke  in 
Lecoq’s  well-known  opdrette.  If  the  Parisians  idolize  her  as 
they  do,  it  is  because  she  builds  a bridge  between  modern  times 
and  those  when  Paris  was  a paradise  without  any  shadows,  where 
there  was  only  heard  laughter  and  song,  where  the  women  were 
beautiful  and  the  men  full  of  gallantry,  and  where  everybody 
thought  only  of  enjoying  life  to  the  utmost.  However  great  her 
triumphs  have  been  in  plays  like  “ La  petite  Mariee,”  “ Madame 
le  Diable,”  and  “ GirofH-Girofla,”  or  sometimes  even  in  repeti- 
tions of  the  famous  Offenbach  operettes,  she  is  never  as  irresisti- 
ble to  her  audience  as  when  she  wears  high  red  heels,  shirt  frills 
and  powdered  wig,  when  she  is  transported  to  the  Paris  of  Louis 
XV.  People  who  understand  these  things  assert  that  she  salutes 
as  they  saluted  in  Versailles,  dances  as  they  danced  in  the  Louve- 
ciennes,  and  rides  horseback  like  Fontenoy  cadets.  Sport  on 
the  stage  is  her  one  great  passion.  She  has  assured  all  the  au- 
thors who  write  plays  for  her,  that  she  will  consider  her  career 
a failure  if  she  does  not  before  her  death  appear  in  a play  where 
she  can  shoot,  fence,  ride  horseback,  blow  a trumpet,  play  on 
the  harp  and  climb  silken  ladders  ; in  short,  perform  all  the 
manly  exercises  that  she  has  perfected  herself  in.  She  knows 
very  well  that  her  greatest  attraction  does  not  lie  in  feminine 
charm, — she  has  the  beauty  that  the  French  call  “ beautd  de  dia- 
ble,"— but  there  is  in  this  face,  with  the  funny  little  nose,  the 
brown  half-veiled  eyes  that  sparkle  with  merriment,  and  the  chin 
with  its  little  dimple,  a gay  unconcern  that  drives  away  all  mel- 
ancholy thoughts  and  captures  the  heart.  Then  Granier  sings 
as  only  a Parisian  woman  can  sing.  Her  family  was  not  very 
much  mistaken  when  it  decided  as  soon  as  she  was  old  enough 
that  she  should  make  singing  her  profession.  They  chose  this 
way,  because  being  born  into  the  theatre  world,  as  she  was,  it 
was  thought  to  be  more  likely  to  keep  her  in  the  path  of  virtue 


RISING  STARS. 


231 


than  comedy.  But  the  first  part  of  this  new  path  of  life  was  not 
exactly  rose-strewn. 

She  is  said  to  have  been  the  quaintest  little  being  imaginable 
when,  at  fourteen  years,  she  presented  herself  to  pass  her  examina- 
tion to  enter  the  conservatory.  Trembling  with  fear,  she  climbed 
up  the  stairs,  and  her  white  muslin  dress  being  rather  long  she 
stepped  on  it  in  her  excessive  flurry,  and  made  her  entrance  by 
measuring  her  length  on  the  floor.  She  soon  gained  courage, 
however.  When  the  competitors  were  entirely  inadmissible  it 
was  the  custom  with  a few  vigorous  strokes  on  a bell  to  inform 
them  of  the  fact  and  make  them  retire  before  they  had  finished 
the  first  number.  When  Granier  did  not  hear  the  bell,  her 
spirits  rose,  and  she  went  ahead  at  a wild  speed,  trying  at  the 
same  time  to  turn  the  page  for  the  accompanist,  but  the  sight 
of  one  of  her  eyes  was  very  weak,  and  she  pulled  the  notes  down 
every  time  ; then  she  would  laugh  till  she  shook,  and  crawl  in 
under  the  grand  piano  to  get  them ; and  when  at  last  she  was 
through,  there  was  no  jury  to  be  seen,  they  were  all  completely 
prostrated  with  laughter.  Auber  thanked  her  for  the  amusement 
she  had  afforded  him  and  his  colleagues,  but  advised  her  rather 
to  be  a clown  than  a singer.  Later  on  the  weak  eye  grew  worse 
and  worse  ; during  four  years  she  was  in  constant  danger  of  be- 
coming blind,  and  it  was  not  till  after  the  war  and  the  commune 
that  she  was  able  to  take  up  her  singing  again.  She  was  then 
sent  to  an  Italian,  Arnoldi,  who  had  a most  peculiar  method. 
He  made  his  pupils  sit  down  in  a large  arm-chair,  with  a very 
much  reclining  back,  took  all  the  pillows,  footstools,  and  cushions 
he  could  find  in  the  room,  and  piled  them  one  on  top  of  the 
other  on  their  chests,  and  then  he  struck  a note  on  the  piano 
and  told  them  to  take  it.  There  proceeded  from  under  the  pil- 
low mountain  a long  sigh  as  that  of  a horse  in  agony.  “ Very 
well,”  said  the  Italian,  rubbing  his  hands  contentedly  ; “ it  will  be 
splendid,  when  you  don’t  have  the  pillows.”  The  pupils  were 
then  told  to  put  up  their  arms  and  scream  at  the  top  of  their 
lungs.  Granier  laid  here  a good  foundation  for  her  gymnastic 
exercises,  but  her  voice  broke  down  and  it  took  four  years  to 
restore  it  to  its  former  strength.  Then  came  all  the  debut 
difficulties  ; she  went  from  theatre  to  theatre  and  offered,  every 
time  a prima  donna  was  sick,  to  play  her  part ; but  everywhere 


23  2 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  managers  laughed  at  her,  until  Offenbach  at  last  took  her. 
Thao’s  illness  was  on  the  point  of  spoiling  the  success  of  “ La 
Jolie  Parfumeuse.”  She  conquered  at  once. 

In  the  first  great  opdrette  that 
was  written,  “ Girofl^-Girofla,”- she 
got  the  principal  part,  and  from 
that  moment  her  career  has  been 
a succession  of  triumphs.  The 
harm  done  by  Arnoldi  was  re- 
paired, and  Granier’s  singing  and 
acting  were  equally  artistic.  She 
has  not  a wonderful  voice,  but  it 
is  well  schooled,  and  she  knows  how 
to  use  it  so  that  it  would  be  all  that 
was  needed,  even  if  she  should  end 
her  career  at  the  Opdra  Comique, 
as  it  has  often  been  said  that  she 
will.  But  even  if  Granier  should 
leave  this  sphere  for  higher  ones, 
the  op£rette  would  stand  in  no  need 

MADAME  GRISIER-MONTBAZON.  1 , 

of  stars  tnat  could  take  her  place. 

Mme.  Grisier-Montbazon  is  in  every  way  able  to  fill  it,  when 
she  can  get  rid  of  her  “ Mascotte  ” part.  But  the  success  she 
attained  in  this  has  been  a chain  around  her  feet,  preventing  her 
from  reaching  higher  aims.  It  was  a mere  accident  that  she  be- 
came the  exponent  of  Bettina.  The  managers  had,  to  oblige  her 
family — all  the  members  of  which  through  three  or  four  gener- 
ations had,  so  to  say,  belonged  to  the  stage — taken  her  from  the 
provinces  and  given  her  a small  part  in  the  play.  Shortly  before 
the  evening  set  for  the  performance,  the  actress  who  was  to  play 
Bettina  was  taken  ill.  The  doctors  said  that  they  might  have  to 
wait  for  her  for  months,  and  it  was  necessary  that  the  new  piece 
should  be  played,  as  there  was  nothing  else  ready  to  be  put  on 
the  stage.  Little  Montbazon  had  at  home  been  accustomed  to 
study  the  parts  of  her  rivals  in  order  to  be  able  to  offer  herself 
when  they  were  prevented  from  playing  ; she  did  the  same  now 
and  the  manager  accepted  her  offer,  because  he  had  hardly  any 
other  choice.  He  did  not  expect  that  under  these  circumstances 
the  play  would  do  anything  but  just  make  the  time  pass  until 


RISING  STARS. 


233 


he  could  have  another  one  rehearsed,  but  in  this  case,  as  in  so 
many  others,  the  result  was  quite  different  from  the  anticipations. 
A long  time  has  passed  since  then  ; Montbazon  has  been 
married  to  the  journalist  Grisier,  and  is  mother  to  a little  Bettina, 
but  she  still  plays  in  the  “ Mascotte.”  She  has  acted  the  part  a 
thousand  times  now,  and  when  she  sometimes  gets  too  tired  of  it 
she  goes  on  a little  tournee  to  the  provinces  to  act  something  else. 
People  are  delighted  to  see  her  both  in  “ Nitouche  ” and  “ Boc- 
caccio,” but  when  the  performance  is  over  they  send  a deputation 
to  ask  when  the  “ Mascotte  ” will 
come.  In  order  not  to  awaken 
a revolution  in  the  city  she  is 
regularly  obliged  to  telegraph  to 
Paris  for  the  trunks  with  the 
“ Mascotte  ” costumes.  Mme. 

Simon-Girard  has  shared  a simi- 
lar fate  as  Serpolette  in  “ Les 
Cloches  de  Corneville.”  This 
op6rette  has,  thanks  to  the  fresh- 
ness and  good  spirits  of  her 
performance,  been  played  over  a 
thousand  times,  and  was,  like  the 
“ Mascotte,”  without  a moment’s 
hesitation  chosen  when  the  ques- 
tion of  having  something  attract- 
ive for  the  exposition  season 
came  under  consideration. 

Granier  is  the  star  of  the 
salons ; no  hostess  who  wants  a 
flavor  of  Parisianism  at  her  par- 
ties fails  to  give  the  principal 
part  of  the  entertainment  into 
the  hands  of  Granier.  Montbazon  i3  the  Boulevard  prima  donna ; 
after  an  enjoyable  little  dinner  at  a cabinet  particulier  one  must 
inevitably  go  to  the  Bouffes  and  laugh  with  “ Mascotte.” 

Madame  Simon-Girard  is  the  favorite  of  the  bourgeoisie. 
She  does  not  have  Granier’s  merriment  nor  Montbazon’s  drdlerie, 
but  she  has  a sedate  and  yet  coquettish  charm  that  is  just  what 
•nc  finds  in  the  Parisian  women  of  the  middle  classes.  In  her 


MADAME  SIMON-GIRARD. 


234 


PARIS  OF  TO-DA  Y. 


private  life  she  differs  very  much  from  the  usual  type  of  Parisian 
actresses.  At  Villa  Serpolette,  just  outside  of  town,  she  leads 
an  exemplary  family  life  with  her  husband,  the  actor  Simon- 
Max,  and  her  three  babies.  She  was  married  when  sixteen  and 
he  twenty  odd  years  old,  and  since  then  they  have  lived  like  one 
person.  They  always  say  “we”  of  everything  that  they  do.  If 
he  for  once  should  not  play  in  the  same  piece,  he  is  nevertheless 

always  there  to  take  his  wife 
home,  and  they  always  have  their 
supper  within  their  own  walls. 
There  is  something  of  this  se- 
dateness over  Madame  Simon- 
Girard’s  acting,  added  to  the  un- 
changeable good  spirits  that  hap- 
piness gives.  She  makes  the  im- 
pression of  a priestess  of  happi- 
ness, consecrated  to  the  beautiful 
vocation  of  making  everybody 
around  her  happy.  In  their  way 
each  of  the  three  stars  of  the  op6- 
rette  has  her  own  peculiar  lustre, 
but  they  are  all  brilliant  enough 
to  make  it  unnecessary  for  Paris 
to  fear  that  it  should  be  left  in 
darkness  on  anyone  of  these  fields 
in  the  near  future. 

The  stars  of  the  comedy  have 
been  shining  for  quite  a while. 
It  was  not  in  the  eighties  that  Reichemberg,  Samary  or  Baretta 
were  discovered,  and  both  Bartel  and  Blanche  Pierson  have 
thrown  light  over  other  theatres  before  they  came  to  the  Theatre 
Frangais.  The  socittaires  have  of  late  years  only  received  one 
new  member  on  their  staff  that  was  capable  of  carrying  out  the 
old  traditions  of  the  theatre-republic.  And  the  tradition,  more 
than  the  personality,  seems  to  be  the  center  of  attraction  of  this 
youngest  member.  Mile.  Muller  was  already  charming  and  per- 
fect when  she  left  Delaunay’s  conservatory  class  with  a first  prize 
in  ’84.  She  has  since  then  played  Musset’s  Fantaisies  and  other 
ingenue  parts  of  a similar  nature  so  charmingly  that  she  has 


RISING  STARS. 


235 


taken  by  storm  the  audience,  the  critics,  and  her  own  colleagues ; 
but  the  little  queen  from  Niirnberg,  as  she  is  called  at  the  thea- 
tre, is  nevertheless  first  of  all  Delaunay’s  pupil.  Her  characters 
are  as  excellent  and  finished  as  if  they  were  made  of  Dresdener 
china,  but  they  bear  the  stamp  of  the  school  more  than  that  of 
her  personality. 

Even  outside  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  there  have  arisen  new 
stars.  At  the  Palais  Royal  the  house  is  still  filled  with  laughter, 
thanks  to  Alice  Lavigne  and  Madame  Mathilde,  and  at  the 
Gymnase  Marie  Magnier  carries  her  costumes  with  an  elegance 
that  makes  tout  Paris  adopt  her  fashions,  as  soon  as  it  has 
admired  her  at  a premiere.  Here  and  there  a few  prima  donnas 
appear  who  may  in  time  assert  their  power.  A twenty-two 
years  old  niece  of  Sarah  Bernhardt’s,  Rosa  Bruch,  has,  for  in- 
stance, in  “Fromont  jeune  and  Risler  ain6,”  in  “ Comtesse 
Sarah,”  and  in  “ Dora,”  seemed  to  evince  that  beside  the  silvery 
voice  and  other  personal  advantages  of  her  aunt,  she  has  inher- 
ited her  dramatic  fire.  And  Gabrielle  R£- 
jane  has,  in  “ D6core,”  in  “ Germinie  Lacer- 
teux,”  and,  not  least,  in  Sardou’s  “ Mar- 
quise,” shown  that  she  could  create  great 
and  original  characters.  There  is  a good 
deal  of  energy  over  her  performance,  and 
she  has  a decided  flavor  of  Parisianism  that 
makes  the  critical  vanguard  of  the  younger 
generation  extol  her  to  the  skies,  and  which 
can  only  add  to  her  triumph  if  she  should 
succeed  in  conquering.  But  neither  she  nor 
any  of  the  young  rising  stars  seem  to  have 
reached  absolute  transformation.  There  are 
not  a few  whom  one  likes  to  see,  and  to 
applaud,  but  none  who  draws  the  whole  city  with  irresistible 
power  of  attraction,  and  whose  success  is  so  absolute  that  it 
has  secured  them  an  indisputable  immortality. 


337 


, , - 


XXIV. 

The  Era  of  Titanic  Structures. 


THE  famous  esprit  franqais  is,  after  all,  simply  a natural 
ability  for  hitting  the  nail  on  the  head  without  ever  missing, 
and  it  is  this  talent  that  has  made  French  culture  so  all-conquer- 
ing and  the  nation  so  admired.  This  home  of  the  word  grew  to 
be  home  of  action,  for,  what  one  can  say  clearly  one  must  know, 
and  what  is  known  thoroughly  can  also  be  done.  France  became 
the  home  of  art,  both  that  of  the  brush  and  of  the  pen,  for  the 
secret  of  art  is  just  this  very  faculty  of  expressing  one’s  feelings 
and  thoughts,  and  producing  a picture  so  true  that  it  appears  to 
be  reality.  The  Exposition,  this  last  proof  of  French  genius,  has 
also  had  a formula  of  its  own  in  the  Eiffel  tower.  The  bounds  of 
space  have  been  destroyed,  machines  have  realized  what  were 
considered  impossibilities,  genius  has  made  man  a Titan,  and 
there  is  nothing  too  heavy  for  him  to  take  on  his  shoulders,  no 
stone  that  he  is  obliged  to  leave  unturned.  Everything  at  the 
Exposition  surpassed  expectation.  Its  greatest  works  had  been 

239 


240 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


called  chimeras  that  no  human  hand  could  finish.  Before  the 
appointed  time  they  stood  there  with  iron  bar  joined  to  iron  bar, 
as  it  has  been  shown  on  the  plans  that  everybody  had  looked 
upon  as  a wild  fancy,  and  when  the  President  of  the  Republic, 
on  the  opening  day,  made  his  inauguration  speech  under  the  cen- 
tral dome,  and  then,  accompanied  by  the  dignitaries  of  the  State, 
commenced  his  inspection  of  the  Exposition  palaces,  he 
found  everything  in  the  right  place.  There  might  be  an  un- 
packed box  here  and  there,  but  these  were  only  trifles,  that  could 
be  remedied  easily  enough.  The  pessimists  that  had  predicted 
a financial  failure  had  not  counted  on  the  talent  of  the  French  to 
find  a way  out  of  every  difficulty.  There  were  simply  issued  a 
million  exposition  bonds,  that  were  taken  at  once,  and  these 
paid  for  the  expenses  before  the  opening  day.  People  had  feared 
civil  and  foreign  intricacies,  but  the  truth  was  that  the  sound  of 
the  bells  that  announced  the  Revolution  jubilee  was  more  like 
that  of  the  old  bells  that  used  to  toll  peace  over  the  countries. 
The  Republic  during  that  summer  passed  through  one  of  the 
greatest  crises  it  has  ever  known,  but  was,  in  spite  of  all  evil 
prophecies,  only  the  stronger  and  better  for  it,  and  this  was — 
nobody  thinks  of  denying  it — due  to  the  Exposition.  From  the 
first  moment  the  very  air  was  filled  with  this  exceptional  success. 

Paris  woke  up  on  May  5 with  a full  summer  glory  added  to  its 
festive  toilet.  The  foregoing  night  the  Parisians  had  hardly 
slept ; they  had  been  busy  making  emblems,  transparencies,  and 
illumination  decorations.  Hundreds  of  souvenir  medals,  the 
Eiffel  tower  in  miniature  reproductions,  flowers  of  the  national 
colors  and  cocardes  were  offered  for  sale  everywhere,  and  every 
horse  wore  a tri-colored  cocarde  behind  its  ears.  The  cabmen 
drove  through  the  streets  in  furia  solemnitatis.  Even  if  one 
offered  the  drivers  a gold  coin  it  might  not  be  accepted  ; they 
imagined  that  the  next  person  would  offer  them  a hundred  franc 
bill.  All  offices  were  closed,  the  mail  was  not  delivered,  every- 
body was  dressed  in  Sunday  clothes  at  seven  in  the  morning, 
and  made  his  way  for  the  Exposition.  The  doors  were  not  to 
be  opened  till  1 o’clock  P.M.,  but  people  stood  there,  hour  after 
hour  in  the  broiling  sun,  in  order  to  be  sure  to  get  in.  From  all 
the  railroad  stations  crowds  of  strangers  poured  forth  from  the 
trains  that  came  in  every  minute.  And  with  the  traveling  dust 


PRESIDENT  CARNOT  OPENS  THE  EXPOSITION. 


241 


242 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


still  on  them,  men  and  women  came  rushing  to  add  to  the  rows 
that  were  waiting  outside  of  the  doors,  without  thinking  of  going 
to  any  hotel  first.  The  enthusiasm  and  excitement  grew  from 
hour  to  hour,  after  the  salute  had  announced  the  opening  and 
people  had  rushed  in  through  all  the  gates.  The  avenues  around 
the  Champ-de-Mars  were  filled  with  people  like  all  the  avenues 
and  walks  in  the  Exposition  and  the  surrounding  park.  The 
route  that  was  to  be  followed  by  the  President  and  his  suite  was 
lined  with  crowds,  who  paid  no  heed  to  the  soldiers  or  policemen 
who  tried  to  keep  them  back.  Ladies  who  worked  their  way 
through  the  crowds  caught  in  each  other’s  dresses  with  their 
pins  and  bracelets,  and  the  trophies  found  next  day  on  the  field 
made  up  quite  a treasure.  One  grew  dizzier  and  dizzier  in  this 
hubbub,  and  the  impression  it  made  was  confused  but  of  over- 
whelming greatness,  and  was  not  diminished  when  one  was  able 
later  on  to  look  at  everything  with  soberness.  First  of  all  the 
machine  palace  was  something  that  nobody  had  ever  seen  the  like 
of.  It  was  almost  four  hundred  and  fifty  metres  long,  and  con- 
sisted of  one  great  hall  covered  with  a glass  roof.  The  frame  of 
this  wonder  was  formed  of  a row  of  cross-bars  with  a curve  of 
over  one  hundred  and  ten  metres,  proportions  which  had  never 
yet  been  reached  in  architecture.  The  palace  was  forty-eight 
metres  high — the  Arc  de  Triomphe  might  easily  have  been 
placed  inside.  Through  the  whole  length  of  the  room  ran  four 
rows  of  parallel  beams  to  carry  the  driving-straps,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  horse-power  was  transmitted  through  them  to  an 
infinity  of  machines  that  stood  in  rank  and  file — the  laurel- 
crowned  army  of  modern  civilization  ready  for  new  victories. 
It  was  impossible  to  enter  this  hall  and  let  one’s  eye  glide  over 
the  lines  of  the  immense  arches,  without  uncovering  one’s  head, 
overwhelmed  by  the  imposing  greatness  and  beauty,  so  new  that 
it  was  like  a revelation.  The  impression  was  only  intensified  by 
the  thought  of  the  work  that  this  wonder  represented,  and  the 
consciousness  that  the  ingeniousness  of  the  joining  of  these 
iron  bars  was  the  opening  of  a new  era.  Then  one  understood 
that  this  was  more  than  a gigantic  curiosity. 

As  in  the  anthropological  collections  of  the  Palais  des  Arts 
Lib<§raux  it  was  shown  how  the  old  stone  age  was  replaced  by 
the  bronze  age,  so  this  seemed  to  show  that  the  marble  age  was, 


CROWDS  OF  STRANGERS  BY  EVERY  TRAIN. 


243 


244 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


through  the  Eiffel  tower  and  the  machine  hall,  replaced  by  the 
new  steel  age.  The  engineers  have  now  won  a final  victory. 
The  mountains  have  no  longer  been  able  to  resist  their  augers  ; 
there  are  now  no  abysses,  not  even  seas,  that  the  army  of  smiths 
which  they  send  out  is  not  able  to  conquer.  Over  the  valleys 
they  will  build  immense  viaducts,  and  over  the  ocean  steel 
bridges  that  will  brave  all  storms.*  Although  standing  side  by 
side  with  the  machine  hall,  the  other  Exposition  palaces  looked 
very  imposing.  The  main  buildings  were  built  in  a rectangle 
around  the  Exposition  park;  the  Eiffel  tower  took  the  place  of 
the  fourth  side,  and  on  either  side  of  the  Seine  and  the  Iena  bridge 
was  the  horticultural  exposition  in  the  Trocadero  park,  with  the 
palace  on  top  of  the  hill.  Opposite  the  Eiffel  tower,  with  its  front 
portal  facing  it,  stood  the  building  consisting  of  seven  galleries, 
for  the  different  branches  of  industry;  at  the  left  was  the  Palais 
des  Beaux  Arts  ; at  the  right  the  Palais  des  Arts  Lib£raux,  and 
in  the  two  side  wings  the  parts  given  to  the  departments  of 
foreign  industries. 

The  central  dome  of  the  central  palace,  with  its  rich-fantastic 
gildings  and  the  wonderful  effects  of  light  that  fell  through  the 
stained  glass,  and  the  Galerie  de  Trente  Metres  that  was  built 
out  from  it,  and  formed  the  entrance  portals  for  every  compart- 
ment of  industry,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  general  public. 
Spectators  with  a higher  developed  artistic  sense  did  not  cease 
to  admire  the  side  palaces,  that  were  two  hundred  and  fifty  by 
eighty-five  metres,  and  whose  beautiful  light-blue  cupolas  were 
fifty-six  mhtres  high,  and  by  the  effects  produced  in  architecture 
and  coloring  possessed  all  the  attractive  power  of  novelty  and 
originality.  In  this  way  the  greater  part  of  Champ-de-Mars 
was  under  roof.  In  the  porches  of  the  palaces  stood  an  end- 
less number  of  cafes  and  restaurants  with  seats  for  thousands  of 
fatigued  visitors,  where  waiters  and  waitresses  from  all  the  different 
countries,  dressed  in  many-colored  costumes,  served  out  ale  and 


* Even  before  the  closing  of  the  exhibition  it  was  suspected  what  would  follow  in 
the  track  of  the  Eiffel  tower  and  the  machine  hall.  The  most  prominent  French  and 
English  engineers,  the  first  headed  by  Eiffel  and  Schneider  from  Creuzot,  the  latter 
by  John  Fondler  and  Benj.  Baher,  the  constructors  of  the  Forth  bridge,  united  for  the 
common  purpose  of  realizing  the  plan  of  a bridge  over  the  canal  between  France  and 
England. 


THE  ERA  OF  TITANIC  STRUCTURES. 


245 


gin,  Roumanian  Tannose  grape,  and  Russian  tea,  Cura^oa,  Slu- 
vovitza,  French  wines  and  German  hop  drinks,  while  the  band 
played  inside.  The  remaining  part  of  the  park  was  filled  with 
pavilions  of  all 
sizes  and  de- 
scriptions, from 
the  kiosks 
where  there 
were  served 
American  iced 
drinks  and 
where  the  beau- 
tiful Hungarian 
woman  with  the 
Byzantine  head- 
gear  sold  her 
fruits  and  bon- 
bons, to  fairy 
castles  belong- 
ing to  the  gas- 
works, where 
every  evening 
the  roof,  towers, 
and  windows 
were  covered 
with  gas  fes- 
toons that  made 
it  look  like  a 
building  of 
flames. 

Three  large 
theatres  had 

been  built  on  the  exposition  grounds.  Now  it  would  be  a 
large  panorama  building,  where  people  might  go  up  on  the 
deck  of  a ship  which  seemed  to  roll  and  be  tossed  about,  and 
see  one  sea  picture  more  beautiful  than  the  other  pass  by 
them  with  the  dock  at  Havre  as  a starting-point,  and  the  land- 
ing in  America  as  the  end  of  the  journey ; or  it  would  be  the 
oil  districts  of  Russia  or  America,  that  were  pictured  in  the  pano- 


THE  HUNGARIAN  BELLE  WITH  THE  BYZANTINE  HEAD-GEAR. 


246  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

rama.  There  was  hardly  a country  from  any  of  the  five  con- 
tinents that,  however  well  represented  it  might  be  in  the  main 
buildings,  had  not  raised  a pavilion  of  its  own.  Thus  Sweden 
had  her  pavilion,  where  the  “ Dalhulla  ” sold  old  northern  orna- 
ments and  captivated  the  hearts  of  the  Parisians.  On  the  Seine 
bank  the  architect  of  the  Op£ra,  Gamier,  had  represented  the 
history  of  human  dwellings  through  thirty  odd  little  buildings, 

types  of  what  the  differ- 
ent inhabitants  of  the 
globe,  from  even  prehis- 
toric periods,  had  consid- 
ered home  comfort.  He 
commenced  with  the  archi- 
tecture of  troglodytes  and 
stochkaes,  and  gave  step 
by  step  a bird’s-eye  view 
of  every  period  of  civiliza- 
tion in  its  peculiar  envi- 
ronments, and  the  home 
arrangements  and  the  life 
that  belonged  to  it.  The 
learned  sometimes  dis- 
puted the  correctness  of 
the  style,  and  Gamier  was 
of  course  not  able  to  con- 
jure up  the  old  Egyptians 
and  other  departed  spirits 
from  their  graves  to  popu- 
late his  houses.  In  spite  of  her  peplum,  the  beautiful  Helen 
that  personified  Greece  in  a tavern  from  Pericles’  days  was 
born  and  bred  in  Montmartre,  but  the  bock  she  served  was 
pure  enough.  The  Gamier  houses  were  within  the  limits  of 
the  Parisians’  ethnographical  understanding,  and  were  conse- 
quently very  popular.  As  it  had  not  been  possible  to  find  a 
square  foot  on  the  Champ-de-Mars  for  agriculture  and  pro- 
visions, the  majority  of  the  machines  and  products  belonging 
to  these  branches  were  placed  in  the  long  buildings  that  covered 
thirty  thousand  metres  of  the  Seine  quay,  and  extended  to  the 
Esplanade  des  Invalides,  where  the  actual  exhibition,  with  the 


THE  ERA  OF  TITANIC  STRUCTURES.  247 

crowds  of  palaces  and  pagodas,  disclosed  a new  picturesque 
world.  The  practical  little  Decauville  railroad  brought  people 


from  one  part  of  the  extensive  Exposition  grounds  to  the 
other,  but  even  then  it  took  about  half  an  hour  to  get  from 


248 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  machine  hall  to  the  negro  villages  on  the  Esplanade  des 
Invalides. 

The  Eiffel  tower  was  by  no  means  the  only  phenomenon  of 
size  at  the  Exposition,  everything  was  in  its  own  way  just  as 
gigantic,  and  the  tower  was  well  suited  to  the  surroundings. 
Even  art  had  kept  step  and  had  taken  the  forms  necessary  to 
decorate  buildings  like  these.  The  front  of  the  Central  dome 
was  crowned  by  an  allegorical  statue  of  a woman  representing 
France  distributing  wreaths,  by  the  sculptor  Delaplanche.  To 
make  it  look  well  from  the  height  at  which  it  had  to  be  placed, 
and  to  make  it  correspond  with  the  surroundings,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  it  should  be  of  proportions  that  would  hardly  have 
been  realized  if  it  had  been  necessary  to  have  it  cast  in  the  usual 
way.  It  was  over  twenty-eight  feet  high,  and  its  weight  would 
have  demanded  a building  of  much  more  solid  structure  than  the 
central  dome,  while  the  casting  would  have  involved  an  exorbitant 
outlay.  Delaplanche  surmounted  all  difficulties  by  using  not 
cast,  but  hammered  metal.  In  this  way  it  cost,  all  in  all,  nine 
thousand  francs,  and  its  weight  was  not  so  great  but  that  any 
base  could  have  carried  it.  When  the  artist’s  clay  is  reproduced 
in  hammered  metal  it  is  generally  replaced  by  a model  of  wood. 
This  is  divided  into  as  many  pieces  as  is  considered  necessary, 
and  over  each  of  them  are  put  metal  sheets  that  are  hammered 
until  they  are  bent  over  the  model  and  have  taken  the  shape  of 
it,  even  to  the  smallest  details.  These  sheets  are  then  collected 
and  soldered.  The  figure  inside  looks  like  a skeleton  of  iron 
bars.  The  quantity  of  the  metal  used  is  in  this  way  reduced  to  a 
minimum,  and  so  are,  of  course,  the  expense  and  the  weight,  the 
latter  especially  being  of  great  importance  when  the  work  is  to 
crown  a building  or  to  be  placed  on  top  of  a monument.  Dela- 
planche had  his  statue  executed  in  zinc ; Bartholdi’s  colossal 
fountain,  “ River  and  springs  on  their  way  to  the  ocean,”  proved, 
however,  the  excellent  result  that  can  be  obtained  with  ham- 
mered lead,  for  all  over  the  Exposition  grounds  there  were  sev- 
eral other  works  of  hammered  metal.  This  method  was,  after 
all,  not  new ; hammered  metals  have  been  used  in  artistic  repro- 
ductions long  before  our  time,  but  the  Exposition  achieved  the 
final  victory  of  this  method,  which  will  for  the  future  be  sove- 
reign wherever  great  decorative  effects  have  to  be  obtained,  and 


THE  ERA  OF  TITANIC  STRUCTURES.  249 

where  modern  iron  architecture  would  have  to  renounce  all  pre- 
tensions to  success  if  the  sculptor  of  the  day  had  not  understood 
how  to  keep  step  with  the  architects. 

In  still  another  respect,  architecture  seemed  to  win  a new 
victory.  Burned  clay  compensated  for  marble  and  granite  in 
the  same  way  and  by  virtue  of  the  same  qualities  that  made 
hammered  metal  take  the  place  of  cast.  The  sculptor  Michel 
had  been  commissioned  to  decorate  the  main  portal  of  the 
Palais  des  Arts  Liberaux  with  two  female  figures,  modeled  by 
him  and  representing  Peace  and  Industry.  They  were  to  be 
between  ten  and  twelve  feet  high,  and  could  not  be  reproduced 
in  marble,  as  the  expense  would  be  too  great.  The  artist, 
therefore,  applied  to  the  modern  French  ceramic  factories,  which 
had  already  in  many  ways  shown  that  they  were  true  children  of 
the  age.  There  had  never  as  yet  been  burned  any  works  as 
large  as  these  in  their  ovens,  but  they  nevertheless  entered  upon 
their  task  fearlessly,  and  succeeded  beyond  all  expectations. 
Instead  of  twenty  thousand  francs  for  each  of  the  figures,  hardly 
a thousand  was  expended.  Instead  of  losing  the  effect  they 
seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to  suit  the  surroundings  better.  Also 
the  forty-eight  urns,  ten  feet  high,  around  the  cupolas  on  Palais 
des  Beaux  Arts  and  Palais  des  Arts  Liberaux,  were  made  in  the 
same  way.  The  frieze  with  the  immense  rams’  heads,  Roty’s 
large  medallions,  and  not  a few  of  the  rest  of  the  most  admired 
decorations,  gave  evidence  of  how  appropriate  burned  clay  was 
for  architectural  ornamentation,  and  of  the  future  thereby 
opened  to  ceramic  art.  This  industry  was  perhaps  the  one  that 
obtained  the  greatest  victory  on  the  Champ-de-Mars.  Even 
before  the  opening  of  the  exhibition  it  had  conquered  the  hearts 
of  all  artists,  with  Formige’s  two  cupolas  of  enameled  stones, 
with  their  unusual  effects  of  color;  and  during  the  whole  sum- 
mer it  was  these  very  effects  that  were  most  admired  by  the  vis- 
itors who  understood  and  appreciated  art.  They  made  the 
Champ-de-Mars  look  like  one  large  painting  in  water-color, 
where  the  soft  tones  and  lights  and  shadows  of  the  open  air  pre- 
dominated and  produced  a harmony  of  wonderful  softness. 

And  the  success  grew  and  grew ; people  came  in  greater  and 
greater  crowds  to  visit  the  Exposition.  Second  and  third  class 
boarding-houses  considered  it  a great  favor  when  they  conde- 


250 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


scended  to  take  people  for  a louis  d’or  a day  ; and  if  the  stranger 
had  not  before  his  arrival  sent  telegram  after  telegram  to  Paris, 
and  surrendered  himself  unconditionally  to  the  hotel  keepers,  he 
might  very  easily  be  obliged  to  spend  the  night  driving  from 
place  to  place  in  a cab,  without  finding  a roof  to  cover  his  head. 
The  railroads  carried  during  the  six  months  of  the  Exposition 
twenty  million  passengers — about  five  millions  more  than  usual; 
and  even  when  the  exhibition  came  to  an  end  the  attraction  of 
the  wonders  of  the  Champ-de-Mars  was  still  at  its  height. 
One  of  the  very  last  Sundays  had  showed  the  greatest  number 
of  visitors — about  four  hundred  thousand. 

The  Parisians  were  in  public  as  well  as  private  life  fully  con- 
scious of  the  duties  that  a success  like  this  involved,  and  took 
measures  accordingly.  The  great  ball  with  its  five  or  six 
thousand  guests,  that  had  been  the  greatest  social  wonder  of  the 
Seine  capital,  was  entirely  dwarfed  compared  to  its  successor  of 
the  Exposition  summer.  The  former  Palais  de  l’lndustrie  in 
the  Champs-Elys6es  was  used  for  the  occasion.  In  the  glass- 
roofed  yard  there  was  laid  a polished  floor  of  ten  thousand  square 
metres  ; under  the  glass  roof  was  spread  an  immense  awning ; 

benches  were  erected  along  the  walls 
of  this  gigantic  hall,  large  enough  to 
hold  five  thousand  fauteuils  ; the  walls 
were  covered  with  costly  Gobelins ; 
electric  chandeliers  sent  out  a flood  of 
light,  and  forty  thousand  guests  were 
invited  to  a ball  in  this  immense  and 
magnificent  hall.  It  was  later  trans- 
formed into  a gigantic  concert  hall,  with 
a band  of  twelve  hundred  instruments; 
fifteen  thousand  niaires  were  invited  to 
banquet  there,  and  when  finally  the 
“ Ode  Triomphale  ” was  performed,  it 
was  changed  into  a theatre  of  Eiffel- 
tower  proportions,  accommodating  over 
twenty  thousand  spectators,  with  a staff  of  twelve  thousand  on 
the  stage  all  at  the  same  time.  The  stage  itself  was  almost  one 
hundred  metres  deep,  and  everything  else  was  built  in  the  same 
proportions.  From  the  first  to  the  last  moment  of  the  Exposi- 


THE  ERA  OF  TITANIC  STRUCTURES. 


251 


tion,  Paris  seemed  to  think  that  in  order  to  keep  up  its  newly 
won  reputation,  it  would  be  necessary  to  astonish  the  world 
every  fortnight  with  something  greater  than  anything  ever  seen 
of  its  kind,  and  it  was  therefore  very  natural  that,  even  after  the 
beautiful  summer  nights  had  ended  and  autumn  had  come  with 
rain  and  fog,  thousands  of  travelers  should  still  make  their  way 
to  the  city  on  the  Seine,  to  see  the  wonders  it  contained. 


XXV. 

Exotics  at  the  Exposition. 


'HE  greatest  peculiarity  of  the  Exposition  was 
the  number  of  exotics  which  were  gathered 
within  its  precincts.  To  make  up  for  the  few  Euro- 
pean states  that  in  their  monarchical  haughtiness 
had  thought  it  their  duty  to  stay  at  home,  and 
whose  absence  was  not  even  felt,  the  whole  remain- 
ing  globe,  the  countries  of  the  black  as  well  as  those 
of  the  white  man,  every  part  of  even  the  farthest 
East  had  come.  The  Exposition  became  in  this 
way  more  universal  than  any  of  its  predecessors. 

To  pass  the  turnstile  was  almost  equal  to  possessing 
Anderson’s  shoes  of  fortune  ; one  could  wish  to  be  in  any  country 
at  almost  any  chosen  period,  and  the  wish  was  at  once  fulfilled.  It 
was  this  that  made  the  success  so  complete.  In  the  galleries  there 
were  objects  worth  studying,  but  whereas  of  a thousand  visitors 

252 


THE  CAIRO  STREET. 


253 


254 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


only  one  is  a student,  the  remaining  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine 
are  simply  curious.  To  captivate  them  all,  picturesqueness  was 
necessary.  And  on  this  field  the  Exposition  had,  apart  from  its 
magnificent  gardens  and  exquisite  blending  of  colors,  an  attraction 
that  was  as  new  as  it  was  irresistible.  It  had  hardly  been  opened 
before  Parisians  and  Paris  guests  had  chosen  the  Cairo  street  for 
their  favorite.  It  was  a little  bit  of  a street,  only  about  twenty 
houses  all  told,  but  there  are  hardly  anymore  in  Marseilles’  Cane- 
biere,  and  yet  Marseillans  say  very  proudly,  that  if  Paris  only  had 
a Canabiere  it  would  be  a small  Marseilles.  Under  multicolored 
hangings  one  passed  into  the  narrow  alley,  where  there  were  on 
both  sides  low,  white  houses  and  mosques,  true  reproductions  of 
the  most  characteristic  of  their  kind  in  the  Khedive’s  city. 
They  were  all  built  on  the  same  principle,  the  higher  stories  pro- 
jecting over  the  ground  floor,  with  its  low  entrance,  and  ap- 
proaching each  other  across  the  street  like  curious  vis-a-vis  who 
would  like  to  have  their  noses  in  each  other’s  pies,  shaded  by 
moucharabis,  and  a terrace  with  jagged  battlements  was  sharply 
defined  against  the  sky.  Labyrinths  of  fine  lines  framed  the 
massive  doors,  and  obscure  arcades  led  to  the  shops  filled  with 
all  kinds  of  rich  and  rare  gimcrackery. 

The  most  peculiar  feature,  however,  was  the  moucharabis,  the 
ingenious  wood  lattices  that  protruded  from  the  gable  like  a bal- 
cony to  admit  air  and  light,  and  permit  the  women  to  see  with- 
out being  seen.  Every  jag  in  these  carvings  was  genuine.  The 
French  consul  in  Cairo  had,  with  great  taste,  selected  them  from 
houses  that  were  pulled  down  and  sent  them  to  ornament  the 
street,  which  he  wanted  to  be  absolutely  authentic  in  every 
detail.  The  minaret  was,  with  the  exception  of  one  story,  a 
copy  of  the  masterpiece  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  Kaid- 
Bey  minaret,  so  famous  for  the  richness  of  its  details.  The 
inscriptions  in  faience  over  the  doors  had,  by  profane  hands, 
been  pulled  down  from  a cupola,  and  they  were  brought  here 
because  Oriental  indolence  had  prevented  them  from  being  put 
back  in  their  proper  places.  The  very  street  life  was  genuine. 
In  the  open  booth  sat  many  different  workmen  turning  and 
carving,  with  their  feet  drawn  up  under  them,  and  holding  be- 
tween their  toes  the  little  pieces  of  ivory  as  firmly  as  in  a vise. 
But  the  work  did  not  progress  very  quickly ; why  should  they 


EXOTICS  AT  THE  EXPOSITION. 


255 


work  harder  here  than  at  home  ? Allah  is  great ! he  feeds  his 
children  with  the  sous  that  drop  from  the  hands  of  the  Chris- 
tians. In  the  bazaar,  genuine  Arabian  women,  dressed  in  sequins 
and  gold  embroideries,  offered  for  sale  Oriental  jewels,  many- 
colored  and  cheap,  as  if  they  were  fairy  gifts ; rose  preserves  and 
incense;  red  pipes  with  amber  mouthpieces;  soft  carpets  and 
light  draperies,  interwoven  with  gold  threads.  On  the  top  of 
the  minaret  the  Muezzin  cried  his  prayer  as  often  as  a few  coins 
had  succeeded  in  persuading  him  that  the  hour  of  sunset  was 
near,  and  from  the  Moorish  cafes,  when  the  Almehs  danced  their 
phenomenal  dance,  came,  in  long  and  monotonous  rhythms,  the 
tones  from  singular  brass  instruments  played  by  the  men  who 
squatted  on  the  ground  and  looked  like  immense  white  balls  in 
their  white  blouses.  But  the  greatest,  or  at  least  the  most  popu- 
lar, curiosity  were  the  one  hundred  white  Cairo  donkeys  and 
their  drovers,  in  the  long  blue  blouses,  that  had  a greater  num- 
ber of  little  ventilators  than  an  Arabic  house.  Their  dark  brown 
bare  legs  had  never  been  disfigured  by  any  kind  of  boots,  and 
they  jumped  about  and  screamed  all  day  long  like  wild  dervishes 
to  get  a “bakshish,”  and  played  sometimes  even  worse  tricks. 
People  easily  forgave  them,  however,  for  the  white  donkeys 
carried  the  guests  so  conveniently  and  quietly  under  the  palms 
and  through  flower-gardens  from  the  Cairo  street  to  other 
curious  parts  of  the  globe. 

Side  by  side  all  along  the  Avenue  Suffren  every  one  of  the 
foreign  countries  had  its  own  territory.  First  came  Morocco, 
with  its  mottled  bazaar  behind  the  graceful  round-arched  win- 
dows. On  the  right,  a magnificently  carved  wooden  portal  led 
into  the  wonders  of  Japan,  and  to  the  left  the  Empire  of  the  Sun 
had  its  especial  pavilion.  After  that  came  the  Indian  tower, 
painted  blood-red,  with  mystical  figures  in  grayish  stucco,  where 
brown  Hindoos  in  white  garments  served  tea  and  palm  wine, 
and  through  the  Shah’s  country  the  way  led  into  the  new  world 
that  is  just  beginning  to  assert  itself,  the  young  republics  of 
Central  and  South  America.  They  had  all  come  to  Paris,  each 
having  their  own  pavilion  or  palace,  according  to  their  means. 
States  like  Salvador,  Nicaragua,  or  Paraguay  had,  of  course,  been 
obliged  to  make  modest  claims  on  ground  and  attention,  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  were  several  that  had  erected  magnificent 


forty  feet  high,  without  any  other  opening  than  the  dark  en- 
trance that  looked  like  the  opening  to  an  abyss.  The  model 
was  taken  from  the  old  Aztec  temples.  On  the  walls  of  the 
pyramid  were  geometrical  drawings,  conscientiously  copied  from 
the  old  monuments;  twelve  large  figures  in  relief  occupied  the 
spaces  between  these  drawings,  and  represented  partly  the  old 
emperors,  partly  the  old  Mexican  gods  to  whom  human  offerings 
were  made  by  the  hundreds,  after  the  priests  had  cut  the  victim’s 
chest  open  with  agate  knives.  Finally,  Brazil  had  an  exposition 
building  with  towers  forty-five  feet  high,  that  had  cost  over  one 


256  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

buildings  large  enough  not  to  be  crushed  by  the  gigantic  propor- 
tions of  the  Eiffel  Tower,  at  the  foot  of  which  they  were  built. 
The  Argentine  Republic  had  built  a palace,  the  walls  of  which 
were  broken  through  everywhere  by  colored  glass  globes,  so  that 
when  illuminated  in  the  evening  it  looked  like  a fairy  castle. 
Mexico  was  represented  by  a building  looking  like  a pyramid, 
the  front  of  which  was  over  two  hundred  feet  long  and  over 


THE  MEXICAN  PAVILION. 


EXOTICS  AT  THE  EXPOSITION. 


257 


million  francs.  Connected  with  this  was  a large  hot-house  where 
the  eyes  of  the  Parisians  were  completely  dazzled  by  a collection 
of  the  magnificent  flora  of  that  country,  and  where  in  basins,  the 
water  of  which  was  kept  at  a temperature  of  thirty  centigrades, 
Victoria  regia  bloomed  for  the  first  time  in  Europe  in  the  open 
air.  The  leaves  were  six  feet  in  diameter  and  were  strong 
enough  to  bear  a child.  All  these  buildings  were  surrounded  by 
shrubberies  and  flower-beds,  and  around  the  Mexican  pavilion 
stood  many  specimens  of  the  curious  cacti  from  the  country  of 
the  Aztecs. 

Everywhere  were  small  cafes,  where  women  in  national  cos- 
tumes served  strange  drinks,  and  the  visitors  sitting  at  the  tables 
could,  through  the  arch  of  the  Eiffel  tower,  see  the  Trocad£ro 
heights,  with  its  gardens  and  the  festively  decorated  Palais  in  the 
background.  The  foreign  display  was,  however,  at  its  height  on 
the  Esplanade  des  Invalides,  where  the  colonies  had  theirspecial 
exposition  in  and  around  five  large  palaces,  and  in  a number  of 
smallerbuildings  were  camps  and  villages  that  transported  people, 
now  to  Arabian  countries  where,  until  a few  years  ago,  no 
European  foot  had  trod,  now  to  the  farthest  East,  now  to  the 
heart  of  the  country  of  the  blacks,  and  to  the  banks  of  the  mys- 
tical Congo.  Here  everything  was  as  genuine  as  in  the  Cairo 
street.  The  Cambodge  palace  was  an  exact  imitation  of  part  of 
the  famous  ruins  of  the  Angkor-Vars.  Until  about  thirty  years 
ago  these  imposing  remains  of  a flourishing  civilization  were 
yet  unknown.  Travelers  from  Cochin  China  found  them  in  a 
large  forest,  the  trees  of  which  had  taken  root  in  the  crevices. 
The  entire  country  around  was  desolate  and  deserted.  The  rich 
town  of  Angkor  with  its  twenty  thousand  houses,  that  the  old 
Chinese  authors  told  about,  had  disappeared,  and  of  the  entire 
population  only  a few  bonzes  were  left,  who  lived  as  hermits  near 
the  pagoda  to  watch  over  it.  But  this  building  was  enough  to 
give  a conception  of  the  former  magnificence  of  the  country.  It 
extended  over  four  successive  terraces,  and  was  twelve  hundred 
metres  long  and  eight  hundred  wide ; the  central  dome  must 
have  been  almost  fifty-five  metres  high,  and  these  immense  walls 
were,  inside  as  well  as  outside,  covered  with  sculpture.  There 
had,  with  almost  inconceivable  boldness,  been  cut  Buddha-marks 
of  three  to  four  metres  in  diameter.  Some  of  the  stone  blocks 


258 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


carried  up  to  these  heights  are  among  the  largest  ever  moved  by 
human  hands,  and  thousands  of  laborers  must  have  spent  a 
lifetime  constructing  these  buildings.  There  could,  of  course, 
be  no  hope  of  reproducing  more  than  a very  small  part  of  these 
on  the  Esplanade.  It  was  one  single  gate  that  stood  there, 
consisting  of  two  cross-galleries ; the  roofs,  with  their  seven 
divisions,  rose  pyramidically  toward  the  central  dome.  But  with 
its  carved  images  on  the  pediments,  warriors  on  horseback,  and 
gods  swinging  their  glaves  over  paralyzed  enemies — with  its  un- 
dulating serpents,  the  holy  Naja  with  the  seven  heads,  and 
the  dome,  which  was  over  forty  metres  high  and  looked  like 
a tiara  of  purple  and  gold,  it  made  an  impression  alike 
powerful  and  strange.  Annam’s  and  Tonkin’s  palace  was  a re- 
production of  the  great  Quan-Yen  frontage;  and  for  Algiers 
and  Tunis,  the  most  characteristic  architectural  monuments 
had  been  chosen.  Some  of  the  designs  of  the  Tunese  building 
had  been  taken  from  the  famous  Sidi-Okba  mosque  in  Kairouan. 
Until  about  eight  years  ago  no  infidel,  be  he  Jew  or  Christian, 
was  allowed  to  enter  Kairouan  ; it  was  a holy  city,  and  the  great 
mosque,  supported  by  hundreds  of  pillars,  was  the  object  of 
especial  reverence.  The  faithful  that  could  not  make  a pilgrim- 
age to  Mecca  went  at  least  to  Sidi-Okba’s  mosque.  When  the 
Frenchman  Guerin,  about  eight  years  ago,  obtained  permission 
to  visit  the  city,  his  escorts,  who  feared  an  outbreak  of  wrath 
from  the  fanatic  inhabitants,  forced  him  to  pass  through  quickly, 
without  stopping  anywhere.  But  since  then  the  portals  of  the 
holy  city  have  been  opened  for  a cavalry  corps;  people  have 
made  their  way  into  the  mysterious  mosque  ; they  have  counted 
and  measured  its  pillars,  until  now  an  exact  copy  of  its  glorious 
* cupola  adorns  a public  place  in  Paris.  The  black  and  brown 
heroes,  also,  whose  victories  had  made  it  possible  for  Europeans 
to  subdue  these  countries,  were  sent  as  a delegation  to  the 
Exposition  on  the  Champ-de-Mars.  The  supervision  had  been 
given  to  the  ordinary  Paris  police,  but  on  the  Esplanade  it  was 
given  to  native  soldiers  of  the  different  auxiliary  troops  from  the 
colonies.  Proud  Arabs  in  their  white  burnooses,  Spahis  and 
Senegal  skirmishers,  Cipahis  from  India,  Sakalaves  and 
Anamese  guarded  with  true  military  dignity  the  entrance  to  the 
foreign  buildings.  The  Arabs  were  old  acquaintances  ; the  proud 


NATIONAL  SOLDIERS  ON  GUARD.  (IN  THE  BACKGROUND  THE  ANGKOR-VAR  TOWER  ) 


259 


260 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

Senegal  Spahis,  in  their  scarlet  uniform,  had  been  seen  only  oc- 
casionally, and  it  was  the  first  time  that  the  Anamese  and 
Tonkinese  skirmishers  had  come  to  Paris.  They  are  very  small, 
beardless  men  ; on  their  head  they  wear  a flat  “ Salako  ” of  straw 
with  copper  ornaments  ; very  wide  black  trousers  flapped  around 
their  thin  legs,  the  uniform  jacket  being  of  the  same  color  but 
trimmed  with  red  cords  ; they  wore  sandals  on  their  yellow  feet 
and  their  long  black  hair  was  worn  in  a twist.  In  spite  of  their 
small  size  they  are  said  to  be  splendid  soldiers,  and  have,  at 
Sontay,  Bac-Nuick,  and  several  other  places,  done  not  only  their 
duty  but  a great  deal  more.  The  Senegalese  look  like  giants 
compared  to  them.  There  are  told  the  most  remarkable  stories 
about  these  soldiers.  One  of  them  was  wounded  in  the  fight 
against  Samory.  He  never  uttered  a word  of  complaint,  but 
continued  to  march  all  night  long,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
In  the  morning,  when  he  fell  dead  on  the  ground,  they  found 
three  bullets  in  his  body,  each  of  which  had  split  the  bones. 
The  Senegalese  can  stand  any  climate,  even  that  in  which  the 
French  troops  succumb,  and  are  therefore  of  untold  use.  Many 
of  those  that  had  come  to  the  Esplanade  wore  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  and  it  is  asserted  that  in  spite  of  their  black 
complexion  they  have  turned  the  head  of  more  than  one  little 
Parisian  lady.  These  colored  soldiers  soon  became  dangerous 
rivals  of  the  Cairo  street  and  its  inhabitants. 

When  the  last  touches  were  given  to  the  arrangement  of  the 
Esplanade,  new  nations  constantly  arrived  from  the  farthest 
countries  and  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  at  last,  on  a July 
day,  when  the  sun  shone  as  bright  as  in  their  native  countries,  it 
was  announced  that  the  first  illumination  was  to  be  given  on 
the  colonial  territory.  This  was  the  climax  of  the  Exposition 
fetes  ; among  all  the  fairy  scenes  there  was  none  so  fantastically 
beautiful  as  this  illumination  on  the  Esplanade. 


XXVI 


The  Little  Javan- 
ese Girls. 


ii. 

Evening  has  come ; 
the  yellow  balloons 
shine  in  the  palm  shrubberies  ; the  battlements 
of  the  minaret  and  the  pagoda  are  defined  by 
gas  festoons  with  colored  shades.  The  Angkor- 
Var  temple,  the  white  Tunis  palace,  Anam’s  and 
Tonkin’s  curious  buildings,  even  the  log-house  from  Senegambia 
and  the  colored  tents  of  the  Arabs,  shine  with  Bengal  lights,  and  far 
away  in  the  villages  of  the  Javanese  and  Cochin-Chinese  are  fast- 
ened alongthe  railings  of  the  grass  borders  and  the  ponds  little  col- 
ored lawn-sconces  like  long  lines  of  shining  glow-worms.  People 
press  in  feverish  haste  through  the  turnstiles,  and  the  trains  on 
the  Decauville  railroad  deposit  every  minute  hundreds  of  visit- 
ors. At  nine  o’clock  the  great  procession  is  to  begin,  and  one 
must  hurry  to  secure  a place  from  where  it  can  be  seen.  At  last 


262 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  salute  sounds,  the  tom-toms  rattle,  the  Anamese  whistles 
pipe,  and  everybody  presses  forward  to  come  in  the  first  row. 
The  procession  is  as  marvelous  as  the  surroundings.  The  mag- 
nificently dressed  Arabs  come  first  on  their  noble  horses,  their 
garments  and  harnesses  shining  with  gold  embroideries  and 
many  colors.  After  them  come  the  African  soldiers,  the  Spahis’ 
company  on  foot  with  standards  and  flags,  the  Tunese  Jani- 
zaries, the  jet-black  Senegalese  cavaliers ; then  the  Algerian 
“Nouba,”  the  Turkish  band  with  its  clarionets  and  cymbals,  and 
last  in  the  line  come  the  Sahalave  skirmishers  from  Madagascar, 
and  the  ten  Cipays  that  have  come  to  Paris  from  Pondicherry 
and  Chandernagor ; all  are  genuine  samples  of  native  troops  of 


all  colors,  from 
light  brown  to 
jet-black,  and 
dressed  in  uni- 
forms the  one 
more  richly 
colored  than 
the  next. 
Then  come 
four  ex-canni- 
bals  from  New 
Caledonia, 
with  war 
marks,  dressed 
in  feathers 
from  head  to 


MADAME  IN  A “ POUSSE-POUSSE.” 


foot  and  writhing  their  bodies  in  the  most  peculiar  way.  Be- 
tween double  rows  of  Tonkinese  infantry,  carrying  tri-colored 
lanterns  on  their  bayonets,  the  actors  from  the  Anamese 
theatre,  dressed  in  their  costumes  and  masks,  pass  by  proudly 
in  pousse-pousse , — the  little  Chinese  carriages  drawn  by  light- 
footed  Anamese,  and  on  the  Esplanade  taking  the  place  of 
the  fauteuils  roulants  of  the  Champ-de-Mars.  The  Algerian 
and  Chinese  women,  the  wives  and  children  of  the  Khroumirs, 
the  Javanese  dancing  girls,  and  the  Hebes  follow  in  the  same 
conveyances.  Surrounded  by  a guard  of  honor  comes  a Manda- 
rin in  gala  costume  carried  in  a golden  sedan ; then  follow 


THE  LITTLE  JAVANESE  GIRLS.  263 

negroes  from  Gabon,  Senegal,  and  Congo,  with  their  native 
music,  and  last  of  all  the  great  Chinese  dragon  procession. 

Blasts  contemporaries  assert  that  the  greatest  stimulant,  that 
which,  after  “ Wein,  Weib,  und  Gesang ,”  creates  real  excitement, 
is  traveling  ; the  gratification  of  the  inborn  love  of  every  modern 
man  for  the  mysterious  unknown.  Even  those  whose  demands 
were  greatest  in  this  respect  would  find  all  that  their  heart  could 
ask  for  here,  where  the  Australian  Archipelago,  the  heart  of  the 
country  of  the  blacks,  and  the  farthest  East  take  each  other  by 
the  hand.  After  the  procession  the  New  Caledonians  dance 
Pilou-Pilou  on  the  plain  in  front  of  their  village,  the  Anamese 
actors  give  a performance,  Tonkinese  bonzes  hold  a service  in 
the  pagoda,  where  the  fruits  of  the  Celestial  Empire  are  sacrificed 
in  great  masses  to  golden  Buddhas,  and  the  Arabian  Aissa-ouas 
in  fanatic  ecstasy  put  knives  through  their  own  tongues,  swallow 
scorpions,  and  balance  themselves  on  their  stomachs  on  sword 
blades  sharp  as  razors.  All  this  was  perfectly  genuine,  and  lost 
none  of  its  peculiarities  even  by  broad  daylight.  These  people 
all  lived  in  their  little  villages  on  the  Esplanade  as  they  did  in 
their  homes,  doing  their  usual  domestic  work  and  amid  their 
usual  surroundings.  It  had  not,  of  course,  been  found  possible  to 
represent  flora  and  fauna  entirely.  There  were  no  jungles,  no 
Congo  tigers,  no  lotus  groves,  and  no  lianas  climbing  in  palm 
forests  as  large  as  those  under  the  tropical  sun,  but  with  the 
exception  of  this  the  Esplanade  was  at  any  time  and  in  any  light 
like  a miniature  reproduction  of  the  whole  globe.  The  largest 
among  the  villages  was  the  Javanese  Kampong,  where  about 
sixty  yellow-brown  Javanese,  Malays,  and  natives  from  the 
Sunda  Islands  lived  in  groups  or  families,  each  having  their  own 
house  of  bamboo  covered  with  foliage  or  palm  leaves.  They  sat 
outside  these  houses,  where  the  sun  could  shine  on  their  bare 
shoulders  and  legs. 

The  Malays,  the  strongest  and  most  industrious  of  the  race, 
occupied  with  making  hats  and  other  similar  things  of  rice  straw, 
with  the  Javanese  and  the  people  from  Sunda,  idling  as  much  as 
possible.  They  are  of  mixed  blood,  partly  Mongols,  partly 
Hindoos,  partly  Arabs  and  Chinese.  They  have  a great  deal  of 
intelligence,  but  very  little  practical  sense,  are  of  an  artistic 
temperament,  and  prefer  living  from  hand  to  mouth.  They  are 


264  PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 

passionately  fond  of  gambling,  and  every  sou  given  them  by  the 
visitors  is  instantly  put  on  the  cards.  But  at  the  same  time  they 
cultivate  music  and  dance,  and  in  the  heart  of  their  Kampong 
was  the  splendid  “ Tendeppo,”  where  there  was  arranged  a 
theatre,  and  where  the  stars  of  the  summer,  the  little  Javanese 
women,  attracted  a multitude  of  admiring,  or  at  least  wondering, 
spectators.  There  were  four  of  them,  all  in  the  prime  of  youth 


THE  LITTLE  JAVANESE  DANCERS  ON  THEIR  WAY  HOME. 

and  beauty,  the  oldest,  Thamina,  sixteen,  and  the  youngest,  Oua- 
kihama,  only  thirteen  years  old.  Their  master,  the  Sultan  Manka 
Negara,  had  sent  them  from  his  capital,  Selo,  to  Paris  as  the 
selected  ones  of  sixty  rivals,  to  represent  the  Javanese  dancing 
art,  which  seems  to  be  even  more  highly  developed  than  the  Euro- 
pean. A yellow  dancing  girl  like  these,  a “ tandak,”  as  she  is 
called,  is  born  within  the  walls  of  the  royal  castle  and  educated 
there  for  her  art ; she  does  not  leave  the  Sultan  s palace  until 


265 


THE  LITTLE  JAVANESE  GIRLS. 

the  period  prescribed  by  the  holy  rites,  when  she  marries  a man 
of  her  tribe.  Until  then,  she  lives  in  absolute  retirement  and 
quietude,  an  object  of  the  court’s  deepest  respect,  and  surrounded 
with  a prestige  that  makes  it  possible  even  for  royal  maidens  to 
enter  for  a time  the  ranks  of  the  tandaks.  Her  dance  is  entirely 
different  from  that  of  the  dancers  of  any  other  nation,  its  object 
being  to  represent  certain  parts  of  the  Hindostani  epics.  It 
may  even  look,  to  non-Asiatic  eyes,  as  if  she  were  slyly  making 
fun  of  her  audience.  The  main  instruments  of  the  band  were 
the  xylophone-like  komelongs,  large  gongs,  looking  like  soup- 
pots,  two-stringed  violins,  and  tom-toms.  To  this  monotonous 
and  melancholy  music  the  girls  advanced  with  slow,  dreamy 
movements,  as  if  afraid  of  each  step  they  took,  but  bending  their 
bodies  into  serpentine  curves,  accompanied  with  wonderfully 
expressive  movements  of  hands  and  arms.  They  tell  in  their 
pantomimes  of  the  happy  days  of  the  past,  of  the  holy  legends 
of  the  lives  and  loves  of  their  kings  or  heroes,  and  the  extinct 
glory  of  the  Hindostani  race.  Two  of  the  girls  represented 
warriors,  and  were  marked  as  such  by  the  daggers  in  their  belts 
and  their  peculiar  head-dress  ; but,  except  for  this,  the  costumes 
were  the  same  for  all  four.  They  wore  helmets  of  chased  gold, 
and  under  the  costly  drapery,  wrought  with  gold,  that  was 
twisted  around  the  waist  and  fell  down  to  the  ankles,  could  be 
seen  little  velvet  knickerbockers.  The  shoulders  and  limbs  were 
bare,  but  painted  saffron  color ; and  the  neck  and  arms  covered 
with  jewels.  The  brows  and  eyelashes  were  painted  very  black, 
and  when  their  eyes  looked  fixedly  into  space,  while  the  melan- 
choly rhythms  of  the  kamelong  poured  forth  in  endless  harmony, 
the  performance  was  enveloped  in  an  atmosphere  of  inexpres- 
sible, drowsy  melancholy,  with  a suggestion  of  lotus-land  and 
hints  of  ancient  Hindostani  myths. ] But  when  the  dancing 
ended,  youth  and  merriment  sometimes  got  the  better  of  the 
severe  principles  on  which  the  dancers  had  been  brought  up  ; 
their  dignity  disappeared,  and  the  little  Javanese  girls  would 
laugh  and  amuse  themselves  like  the  frolicsome  Parisian 
daughters  of  Eve.  They  had  often  company  on  their  way  home 
from  the  theatre,  and  it  is  said  that  in  their  bamboo  hut  were 
held  festivals  quite  different  from  those  they  were  accustomed  to 
in  the  castle  of  the  Sultan  of  Solo.  When  on  their  return  they 


266 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


have  initiated  the  remaining  fifty-four  members  of  Manka  Ne- 
gara’s ballet-corps  in  the  mysteries  disclosed  on  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  the  time  may  not  be  far  off  when  the  prestige  of  the  tan- 
daks  will  be  impaired. 

Nearest  to  the  Javanese  Kampong  lay  the  New  Caledonian 
village.  The  ten  Kanaks  living  there — six  men  and  four  women 
from  the  different  islands  in  the  Australian  Archipelago — had 
renounced  human  flesh  forever,  and  said,  moreover,  that  they  had 
only  a faint  remembrance  of  how  it  had  tasted  in  their  earliest 
youth.  They  had  also  added  considerably  to  their  original  cos- 
tume. At  home  this  is,  for  the  men,  limited  to  a handkerchief 
rolled  around  the  head  like  a turban  and  decorated  with  a tuft  of 
white  feathers  ; while  the  women  wear  a sort  of  fringed  belt 
made  of  grass.  The  Kanaks  on  the  Esplanade,  however,  wore 
all  sorts  of  garments  ; the  women  chintz  dresses  with  immense 
flowers  on  a red  ground,  that  formed  a striking  contrast  to  their 
black  skin.  The  men  wore  straw  hats  and  antique  havelocks 
bought  at  goodness  knows  what  foreign  port.  Two  of  them, 
Tita  and  Badimouin,  marched  around  proudly  decorated  with 
life-saving  medals  : they  had  been  leaders  of  the  French  troops 
during  the  last  Kanak  rebellion,  and  had  displayed  bravery  as 
well  as  discretion.  But  the  New  Caledonian  village  was  very 
primitive  ; the  huts  were  low  and  built  of  rough  planks,  with  the 
door  as  the  only  opening  through  which  the  light  could  pass, 
and  decorated  only  with  weapons,  slings,  bows,  and  the  frightful 
“ taboos,”  coarsely  carved,  distorted,  red  and  green  painted  faces 
on  long  poles  and  having  oblong  eyes,  immense  noses,  and  thick 
lips,  between  which  a broad  red  tongue  generally  dangled.  The 
only  signs  of  the  artistic  sense  of  the  Kanaks  besides  these  taboos 
are  certain  bamboo  sticks,  on  which  their  literature  is  repre- 
sented. When  the  spirit  moves  they  cut  runes  in  these,  meant 
to  express  the  overwhelming  power  of  their  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. When  horses  were  first  introduced  in  their  country,  they 
painted  on  all  their  bamboo  sticks  mystic  figures  to  represent 
them.  When  a plague  of  grasshoppers,  their  betes-noires,  visits 
their  island,  these  insects  figure  exclusively  in  the  bamboo  pic- 
tures as  the  French  soldiers  did  in  1878.  But  they  have  never 
reached  farther  than  to  this  gross  representation  of  the  things 
that  impress  them  most  forcibly.  They  do  not  know  anything 


THE  KANAK  VILLAGE. 


267 


268 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


about  music  ; their  monotonous  song,  a continual  repetition  of 
three  or  four  notes,  sounds  like  the  noise  of  the  waves  dashing 
against  the  shore.  But  they  excel  in  dancing,  and  dance  on  all 
occasions,  sometimes  to  express  joy,  sometimes  sorrow.  It  may 
be  they  do  this  simply  for  exercise,  as  they  are  the  laziest  people 
on  the  globe.  On  their  fruitful  islands  it  is  not  necessary  to  work 
in  order  to  exist.  They  rise  about  noon,  and  the  few  hours  in 
which  they  do  not  sleep  they  spend  sitting  idly,  holding  a fishing- 
rod.  When  Badimouin  was  asked  what  his  work  had  been,  he 
would  answer,  “ I have  worked  at  sleeping,”  and  when  one 
inquired  what  he  intended  to  do,  he  would  add  that  he  would 
soon  “work  at  eating.”  But  a life  like  this  insures  a wonderful 
quietness  and  equanimity  of  temperament.  The  Kanaks  were 
always  in  the  best  of  spirits.  How  these  large,  good-natured 
children  can  ever  have  had  cannibalistic  tendencies  is  one  of  the 
unfathomable  mysteries  of  humanity. 

Senegalese  and  Congo  negroes  bade  the  white  men  a hearty 
welcome  to  their  villages.  It  was,  for  many  of  them,  the  first 
time  they  had  come  in  contact  with  Europeans;  De  Brazza  had 
brought  them  from  the  interior  of  the  country  of  the  blacks 
directly  to  the  Esplanade.  But,  as  a race,  they  seemed  open 
to  civilization ; many  of  them  knew  already  how  to  make  them- 
selves understood  in  French.  They  wore  their  blue  sailor  suits 
with  as  much  dignity  as  if  they  had  never  been  in  the  habit  of 
going  about  naked  ; they  showed  considerable  intelligence  and 
a desire  to  learn,  and  easily  made  themselves  at  home  in  their 
new  surroundings.  The  representatives  of  northern  Africa  were 
both  Arabians  and  Kabyles  ; the  first  came,  for  the  greater  part, 
from  the  oases  in  the  outskirts  of  the  desert,  and  were  camping 
out  in  the  little  red  and  black  striped  tents,  with  which  they 
move  from  place  to  place,  free  as  the  wind  that  blows  over  their 
heads,  glorious  and  bright  in  their  motley  costumes  as  the  sun 
that  browns  their  skin.  Their  noble  horses  were  turned  out  to 
grass  around  the  tents.  Their  masters  lay  in  aristocratic  dolce 
far  niente  on  costly  Oriental  rugs,  and  around  them  one  could  see, 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  tent,  gold-embroidered  saddles,  fine 
Damascus  steel  weapons,  invaluable  embroideries,  and  utensils 
of  various  kinds  spread  all  over  the  floor.  The  true  Arab  is  too 
superior  a being  to  bend  his  back  to  remove  any  object  from  the 


THE  LITTLE  JAVANESE  GIRLS- 


269 


place  where  chance  has  placed  it.  When  he  is  not  on  the  war- 
path or  in  the  saddle,  there  is  only  one  thing  worthy  of  him  : 
sleep.  For  sleep  breeds  dreams,  and  dreams  bring  a thousand 
pictures  of  the  glory  and  magnificence  that  he  loves.  All  the 
low  earthly  work  necessary  in  this  life  is  done  by  the  women. 
He  only  considers  them  as  slaves  who  do  not  deserve  love,  but 
of  whom  he  is  absurdly  jealous.  He  watched  over  them  in 
Paris  with  even  greater  vigilance  than  at  his  home.  They  lived 
in  a separate  tent  inside  the  inclosure ; and  on  a plate  fastened 
on  the  outside  was  written  “ No  admittance  for  men.” 

The  Kabyle  is  of  a very  different  type.  Even  his  dress  is  more 
modest.  He  wears  a long  shirt  that  reaches  below  the  knee, 
white  burnoose  and  baggy  trousers  of  white  linen ; the  red 
woolen  cap  is  all  that  gives  color  to  the  costume.  His  bearing 
lacks  the  self-consciousness  of  the  Arab’s ; he  is  not  the  free 
nomad,  independent  of  nature  and  his  surroundings,  for  he 
always  leaves  those  that  do  not  please  him.  He  who  eats  his 
bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  face  is  the  laborer,  attached  to  the 
ground.  His  country  is  rich,  cool  with  running  waters,  over- 
shadowed by  olive  and  fig  groves,  and  full  of  vineyards.  He  is 
deeply  attached  to  it,  has  built  his  home  and  lives  there  with  his 
family ; moreover,  he  loves  his  wife  and  lives  in  intimate  com- 
panionship with  her — something  that  is  generally  unknown  in  the 
East.  He  is,  therefore,  not  afraid  of  letting  her  be  seen  ; and 
when  visitors,  passing  through  a rather  dismal,  low,  and  dark  cor- 
ridor, had  reached  the  inner  court  where  the  Kabyle  houses  were 
situated,  they  were  admitted  to  the  lower  story,  where  the  work 
was  done,  and  where  the  kitchen  utensils  and  the  domestic  ani- 
mals were  kept,  and  even  to  the  bedrooms  above.  The  furniture 
was  simple,  like  the  dirty  gray  building  of  clay,  that  lacked  all 
decorations  and  even  windows  ; but  the  children’s  laughter  and 
the  women’s  large  black  eyes  shed  sunlight  over  the  home.  The 
countless  little  ones  looked  radiant,  running  about  half-naked  ; 
but  they  do  not  seem  to  grow  in  beauty  with  the  years.  The 
women  are  coquettish  ; they  wear  a mass  of  bracelets  around 
their  wrists  and  ankles,  ajid  are  covered  with  clasps  and  buckles 
with  long  bright-colored  belts,  and  mottled  silk  kerchiefs  around 
their  heads  ; but  only  the  youngest  of  them  are  beautiful  accord- 
ing to  European  tastes.  “Bakshish!  Bakshish,”  screamed  the 


270 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


children  in  chorus,  and  when  the  Ivabyle  had  visited  the  rest  of 
the  Oriental  world  on  the  Esplanade,  he,  too,  kept  his  doors  closed, 
and  people  had  to  pay  two  sous  to  be  admitted.  He  was  not  a 
North  African  for  nothing.  The  people  of  Algiers,  Tunis,  Mo- 
rocco, and  Egypt — these  merchants  par  excellence — had  sent  their 
greatest  experts  in  the  art  to  Paris.  In  the  “ Souk ,”  a copy  of  a 
bazaar  from  the  Tunese  capital,  as  well  as  in  separate  booths 

spread  all  over 
their  territory, 
there  was  a mul- 
titude of  repre- 
sentatives of  all 
possible  Orient- 
al i n d u s t ries, 
and  those  be- 
longing to  all 
the  different 
races  that  had 
intermarried  in 
the  course  of 
time.  Filigree 
work  in  silver 
was  done  here, 
little  pieces  of 
furniture  were 
carved  in  ebony 
and  inlaid  with 
mother  of  pearl, 
velvet  waist- 
coats  were 
embroidered  in 
gold  and  cov- 
ered with  span- 
gles by  work- 
men dressed  in 
caftans.  There 
were  a number 

of  pancake-bakers  in  green  silk  jackets,  of  negroes  who  sold  fans 
of  palm  leaves,  vials  with  attar  of  roses,  cream-colored  nougat,  or 


AIOUSCHA. 


THE  LITTLE  JAVANESE  GIRLS. 


271 


perfumed  red  and  blue  candy  sticks  ; Tunese  women  in  wide, 
yellow  satin  pantaloons  rolled  cigarettes,  and  merchants  sold 
pineapples  and  stuffed 
ibis.  Everywhere  were 
cafes , where  the  Alm6es 
performed  theirpeculiar 
dance  and  the  dervishes 
whirled  around  and 
around  so  that  it  made 
one  dizzy  to  look  at 
them. 

In  Algiers  and  Tunis 
these  performances  are 
not  allowed,  but  on  the 
Esplanade  the  Almee 
temples  were  right 
through  the  summer, 
full  of  visitors.  There 
were  none  of  the  stars 
of  la  grande  foire  that 
met  with  as  much  suc- 
cess as  Aiouscha  in  the 
Egyptian  cafd  of  the 
Cairo  street.  All  Paris 
visited  her  booth  when 
the  time  of  the  perform- 
ance drew  near.  She 
wore  a very  short  Span- 
ish jacket  of  lilac  silk ; the  waist  a little  below  the  hips  was 
lightly  covered  with  a thin  yellow  gauze  veil,  and  a mottled 
silk  skirt  fell  from  the  belt  that  was  fastened  below  the  hips. 
The  performance  was  followed  with  breathless  attention  and 
in  silence,  although  it  is  probably  one  of  the  most  ungrace- 
ful dances  one  could  possibly  imagine.  With  the  first  sounds  of 
castanets  a thrill  seems  to  pass  through  her  body,  and  soon 
develops  into  a rhythmical  movement  of  the  abdominal  regions  ; 
it  gradually  reaches  the  chest,  which  moves  as  if  shaken  by 
internal  quiverings,  while  shoulders  and  arms  are  kept  perfectly 
quiet.  The  eyes  have  a fixed  stare  ; the  face  is  calm  as  marble  ; 


272 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


but  when  the  movements  grow  in  strength  the  head  wriggles 
with  little  quick  starts  from  right  to  left.  The  sound  of  the  cas- 
tanets grows  wilder  and  wilder,  the  movements  stronger  and 
stronger,  until  at  last  the  dancer  falls  down  exhausted  on  her 
cushions  and  resumes  her  smoking.  The  Parisian  ladies  and  the 
Gommeux  declared  Aiouscha’s  dance  a success  from  the  first. 

Almdes  were  imported  from  the  north  African  coast,  and 
everywhere  on  the  Esplanade  and  Champ-de-Mars  new  Oriental 
cafes  appeared.  Few  of  these  new  stars,  however,  reached  the 
perfection  of  Aiouscha  in  this  peculiar  art.  The  beautiful 
blonde  Baya,  the  Almee  of  the  Morocco  caft,  gave  a perform- 
ance of  the  dance  in  usum  delphini,  and  the  boarding-school 
mistresses  preferred  to  take  their  young  girls  to  see  her  when 
they  visited  the  Esplanade.  The  success  of  the  Alm£e  dance 
grew  with  that  of  the  Exposition  ; all  through  the  summer,  this 
was  the  most  fashionable  salon  sport.  It  is  by  no  means  one  of 
the  beautiful  features  of  the  Exposition,  but  it  is  one  that  created 
a sensation  and  never  will  be  forgotten. 

Beside  the  Australian  and  African  villages  on  the  Esplanade 
were  the  Tonkinese  and  Cochin  Chinese,  the  Anamese  soldiers’ 
camp,  Creole  restaurants,  Anamese  theatres,  and  Oriental  cafts 
with  colored  waitresses  from  all  the  different  islands.  Parisians 
knew  until  now  very  little  about  geography,  and  they  became 
gradually  conscious  of  this  deficiency  in  their  education.  Too 
comfortable  to  go  to  the  mountain,  they  made  the  mountain 
come  to  them  in  this  Exposition  summer.  It  was  the  globe  in 
miniature,  represented  with  all  its  peculiarities  and  customs  on 
the  Esplanade,  and  when  all  the  nations  united  in  procession  it 
was  a sight  that  had  never  been  seen  before  and  perhaps  never 
will  be  seen  again. 


XXVII. 

Chips  Here  and  There. 


i. 

THE  Exposition  had,  like  Paris,  one  part  for  the  masses  and  an- 
other for  the  select  few.  It  had  la  grande  foire  with  all  its 
noise  and  crowds,  shining  spangles  and  confusion  of  colors,  but  it 
had,  besides  this,  the  quiet  studies.  One  might  enjoy  one’s 
self  or  work,  out  there,  according  to  taste,  and  both  things  went 
hand  in  hand,  for  the  Exposition  stood  there  to  give  evidence 
that  work  was  not  only  a burden  that  could  not  be  thrown  off 
the  shoulders  of  mankind,  and  a necessary  duty,  but  that  in  it 
was  the  happiness  and  greatness  of  life.  To  saunter  along  in 
these  parks  and  halls  was  in  itself  interesting,  and  the  knowledge 
acquired  here  came  to  you  in  the  form  of  pleasure,  as  it  has  ever 
been  the  secret  of  France  to  make  it  do.  Everybody  came  to 
the  Champ-de-Mars,  all  nations  and  all  classes,  people  with  the 
most  different  interests  and  aims.  From  the  very  first  the  Ex- 

273 


*74 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


position  was  pronounced  chic.  All  Paris  gave  up  for  this  summer 
the  fashion  of  going  into  the  country  immediately  after  the  great 
races.  Instead  of  the  plank  walk  on  the  Trouville  sands,  the  Iena 
bridge,  with  its  continuation  of  alleys  covered  with  a striped 
awning,  became  the  fashionable  promenade.  Every  Parisian  that 
wanted  to  keep  up  with  the  times  considered  it  his  duty  to  visit  the 
Exposition  at  least  so  often  that  he  could  make  the  acquaintance 
of  all  the  different  cuisines  of  the  globe.  He  engaged  his  table  a 
week  beforehand  at  the  Roumanian  cafe,  to  be  sure  of  getting  it, 
and  when  he  had  enjoyed  his  sour  soup  and  Tamaiose  wine,  listen- 
ing to  the  music  of  the  Lautharsi  players,  he  would  eat  sherlets 
from  the  Danube  in  the  Hungarian  Czarda,  and  munch  bananas  in 
the  Creole  booth.  He  went  to  table  d'hote  in  the  Japanese  Kam- 
pong,  ate  curry  and  powdered  saffron,  young  bamboo  shoots 
preserved  in  vinegar,  and  apple-dumplings  with  red  pepper  instead 
of  sugar  ; after  that  he  would  consume  half  a dozen  American  iced- 
drinks,  and  have  his  little  bricket  filled  over  and  over  again  with 
cream  by  the  misses  in  the  English  dairy  ; drink  orange  wine, 
served  by  girls  from  Madagascar,  and  Australian  champagne 
among  New  Caledonian  cannibals, — all  under  pretext  of  de- 
stroying the  effects  of  the  red  pepper.  Wherever  he  came,  there 
were  musicians,  tooting,  scraping,  or  leathering  away  on  their 
respective  instruments;  but  when  the  wine,  the  noise,  and  the 
spices  went  to  his  head  and  made  him  dizzy,  he  only  need  call 
the  men  with  their  rolling  fauteuils  in  order  to  be  moved  in  com- 
fort to  new  fairy  scenes,  as  quickly  and  imperceptibly  as  Aladdin 
was  moved  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Ring.  A few  minutes  later  he 
was  on  the  slopes  of  the  Trocadero,  among  climbing  roses,  in 
unseen  and  unthought-of  shades;  among  marguerites,  whose 
crowns  were  arched  like  the  dome  of  a church  ; among  forests  of 
clematis  with  flowers  like  colored  goblets  ; begonia  beds,  where 
every  single  plant  was  a wonder  of  hot-house  culture, — all  the 
hundred  species  of  alocasia,  whose  leaves  are  of  the  most  won- 
derful and  magnificent  designs.  Here  it  was  like  an  idyl. 
The  noise  and  crowd  and  dust  hardly  ever  crossed  the  Iena 
bridge  ; even  on  the  great  fete  days  one  could  find  here,  on  the 
Trocadero  slopes,  nooks  where  solitude  and  peace  reigned.  And 
yet  this  slope  was  one  of  the  pearls  of  the  Exposition  ; agriculture 
had  here  reached  the  same  development  as  did  the  industries, 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE.  275 

arts,  porcelain,  and  ceramic  fabrication  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bridge. 

The  fashionable  flower  of  our  time  is  the  orchid.  It  made  its 
entry  into  the  hot-house  shortly  after  the  brothers  Goncourt  had 
introduced  the  Japanese  mania  in  the  salons;  twenty  or  thirty 
years  ago  there  were  hardly  more  than  about  a dozen  great 
orchid  collections  in  Europe,  but  the  odd,  multicolored,  tropical 


plant  suited  the  modern  taste  for  the  bizarre  too  well  not  to  be 
put  in  the  seat  of  honor.  It  has,  at  the  same  time,  a tendency 
to  individualization  that  is  quite  unknown  in  the  vegetable 
world  ; the  gardeners  do  not  need  to  take  the  trouble  of  crossing 
it  in  order  to  satisfy  their  customers’ mania  for  curiosities;  it 
takes  upon  itself  the  task  of  being  obliging  to  the  utmost  in 
this  respect.  Every  few  minutes  it  appears  in  a form  that  is  by 
no  means  an  accidental  costume,  but  which  to  the  botanist  proves 
that  it  belongs  to  an  absolutely  new  species,  sometimes  only  to 


2j6 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


be  distinguished  from  the  others  by  specialties  that  escape  the 
profane  eye,  but  which,  nevertheless,  are  modifications  of  the 
most  important  organs  of  the  plant.  And  the  peculiarity  is  that 
this  new  species  is  sometimes  limited  to  a very  few  specimens. 
There  arise,  in  this  way,  rarities  that  the  collecting  mania  has 
not  been  able  to  resist.  The  unique  orchids  are  known  among 
lovers  of  flowers  as  the  famous  pictures  are  among  art  amateurs. 
There  are  catalogues  of  them  with  detailed  descriptions,  a story 
of  their  lives  and  the  prices  they  have  obtained  at  different  auc- 
tions. The  orchid  collectors  are  very  numerous,  especially  in 
France.  In  Paris  they  talk  about  auctions  where  rare  species  of 
cypripedium,  dendrobium,  epidendrum,  or  odontoglossum  have 
been  bought  for  three,  four,  five,  even  up  to  ten  and  twenty 
thousand  francs  for  one  single  specimen.  The  Trocadero  garden 
offered  a good  opportunity  to  study  all  this  magnificence.  The 
collectors  had  lent  their  orchid  treasures  to  the  hot-houses, — just 
as  the  art  collectors  had  sent  their  famous  pictures  to  the  retro- 
spective collections  in  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts, — while  the 
gardeners  had  put  all  the  curiosities  they  possessed  on  parade. 
But  to  be  able  to  appreciate  these  rarities  it  was  necessary  to 
have  a companion  who  understood  them  thoroughly.  But  what 
everybody  could  thoroughly  appreciate  was  the  rich  coloring  of 
these  tropical  plants,  and  what  everybody  might  be  astonished 
to  see  was  the  peculiar  way  in  which  these  orchids  were  fed.  The 
greater  part  of  them  are  carnivorous  plants  ; drosera  mucipola  and 
different  cypripedium  open  and  swallow  greedily  every  insect  that 
comes  near  enough,  and  then  close  until  they  have  entirely 
digested  it.  Certain  species  of  nepenthes  are  fed  with  meat. 
But,  besides  these,  the  Trocadero  gardens  contain  a number  of 
unknown  specimens  of  the  vegetation  of  all  the  different  con- 
tinents, and  even  the  Japanese  Kampong  had  a pendent  in  the 
agricultural  exhibition. 

Among  the  inclosures  used  for  fruits  and  vegetables,  one  dis- 
tinguished itself  from  all  the  others.  “ Kasawara,  Tokio,”  was 
written  over  the  entrance.  It  was  entirely  hidden  by  a fence  of 
bamboo  sticks  of  all  sizes.  A single  hinge,  on  which  the  entrance 
door  hung,  seemed  to  be  all  the  iron  that  Mr.  Kasawara  had  found 
it  necessary  to  use.  Steps  made  of  split  tree-trunks  led  up  to  his 
garden,  which  was  laid  out  on  the  terraced  heights,  and  he  in- 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


277 


vited  his  guests  to  rest  on  porcelain  seats  instead  of  benches. 
Everything  was  genuine,  and  calculated  to  make  people  feel  as  if 
they  had  suddenly  been  transported  to  a villa  outside  of  the  Japa- 
nese capital.  Not  least  characteristic  was  Mr.  Kasawara,  who  sat 
behind  his  house  studying  a Japanese  paper  as  voluminous  as  the 
London  Times , and  covered  from  beginning  to  end  with  colored 
figures.  The  most  peculiar  of  all,  however,  were  the  speci- 
mens of  Japanese  dwarf  trees.  One  has  often  seen  these  trees 
on  bronze  or  china,  rugged,  contorted,  and  old-looking,  as  if  they 
carried  the  burden  of  many  hundred  years,  and  yet  hardly  larger 
than  the  pot  in  which  they  stand.  Many  people  may  have 
thought  them  a proof  of  the  childish  standpoint  of  Japanese  art, 
but  they  were  mistaken,  for  the  trees  do  really  look  so.  Kasa- 
wara’s  garden  was  full  of  them.  Even  at  ten  steps’  distance,  one 
had  no  idea  of  what  they  really  were.  There  was  a porcelain 
pot  and  growing  out  of  it  a green  plant,  hardly  half  a m£tre  high, 
that  at  first  sight  looked  quite  commonplace.  But  on  coming 
nearer,  one  discovered  that  it  was  a real  tree,  the  crown  of  which 
lifted  itself  up,  as  if  it  were  by  magic,  and  spread  out  enough  to 
give  room  to  a whole  caravan  in  its  shade.  The  trunk  stood  there, 
gray  and  bent  by  age,  but  almost  majestic  in  its  venerableness  ; 
and  reminded  one  of  the  primeval  forests.  This  illusion  is  not 
as  unreasonable  as  it  may  sound.  These  trees  are  all  one 
hundred,  several  even  two  hundred  years  old.  But  all  through 
their  existence  they  have  been  cultivated  in  these  pots,  and  have 
had  no  more  earth,  water,  or  light  than  they  needed  in  order  to 
live,  and  their  growth  became  in  this  way  a diminished  picture 
of  what  they  would  have  been  if  they  had  been  allowed  to 
develop  freely.  The  aim  was  all  the  time  that  the  foliage  should 
give  the  great  impression  of  the  forest-depth,  while  the  tree  was 
kept  as  small  as  possible.  The  better  this  end  is  accomplished 
the  more  perfect  the  art,  and  the  costlier  the  result  of  the  gar- 
dener’s patience.  Kasawara  had  thuyas  over  one  hundred  and 
fifty  years  old,  for  which  he,  in  spite  of  the  modest  price  charged 
by  the  Japanese,  asked  six  hundred  francs.  Besides  different 
specimens  of  evergreens,  it  is  generally  the  maple  and  bamboo 
that  are  cultivated,  and  especially  the  Japanese  tree,  podocaspus, 
that  seems  to  thrive  best  in  this  way.  Kasawara  had  specimens 
of  these  that  were  over  two  hundred  years  old. 


278 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


The  Japanese  do  not  seem  to  have  the  same  taste  in  flowers 
as  we.  There  were  in  Kasawara’s  garden  and  in  his  albums  of 
Japanese  flora  only  large  ornamental  flowers  ; lilies,  irises,  tulips, 
and  chrysanthemums,  and  even  then  very  few  specimens  of  each. 
When  people  want  to  show  one  an  especial  attention  in  Japan, 
they  do  not  present  their  friend  with  a bouquet  of  flowers,  but 
with  a landscape  of  plants.  One  of  the  old  trees  is  put  in  a box 
as  centerpiece  for  a wild  rocky  landscape,  with  old  ferns  and 

creepers,  or  on  the 
border  of  a smiling 
forest  lake,  full  of 
sailing  boats,  with 
fauna  and  people, 
all  of  china,  and  the 
Trocadero  garden- 
er had  quite  a 
large  assortment 
of  this  Japanese 
luxury  to  show 
his  guests.  Such 
treasures  as  these 
were  hidden  be- 
hind the  foliage  of 
the  Trocadero  gar- 
den. There  were 
peaceful  places 
here,  where  the 
firs  and  the  pines 
seemed  to  stand 
as  near  together  as 
in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and,  on  the  paths  that  ran  among  them, 
sometimes  not  a human  being  was  to  be  seen.  The  blue  African 
cedar,  the  only  specimen  that  has  as  yet  grown  on  European 
ground,  brought  dreams  of  its  distant  home ; while  a grove  with 
the  pyramidal  crowns  of  the  araucaria  carried  one’s  thoughts  to 
the  giants  among  the  Andes  Mountains.  When  tired  of  the 
crowds,  noise,  and  thousand  voices,  one  only  needed  to  cross  the 
Iena  bridge.  On  passing  Garnier’s  human  dwellings,  it  would 
be  well  to  pay  a visit  to  the  Asmanic  pavilion.  The  Turkish 


JAPANESE  THUYA  I50  YEARS  OLD. 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


279 

woman  here  was  less  genuine  than  anything  else  of  the  Exposition, 
for,  in  spite  of  the  turban  and  the  gold-embroidered  satin  coat,  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  her  cradle  had  been  standing  near  Batig- 


A TURKISH  WOMAN  BRED  AND  BORN  IN  . . . BATIGNOLLES. 


nolles.  But  she,  as  well  as  her  colleagues  in  these  houses, — 
which  in  spite  of  their  deficient  archit^ture  were  among  the 
greatest  successes  of  the  Exposition, — was  chosen  from  among 
the  handsomest  girls  in  Paris,  and  her  goods  were  absolutely 
genuine.  In  the  blue  smoke  of  the  tobacco  she  sold,  all  the 
houris  of  paradise  seemed  to  take  each  other  by  the  hand. 
When  the  odor  of  its  smoke  for  an  hour  or  so  had  mingled  with 
the  perfume  of  the  Trocadero  flower  gardens,  when  one  had 
rested  for  a while  on  the  benches  in  the  pine  grove,  where  the 
noise  and  hubbub  sounded  like  the  rolling  of  far-off  waves,  brain 
and  senses  were  once  more  rested  and  one  could  commence 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


280 

another  stroll  on  the  Champ-de-Mars,  and  enjoy  new  pleasures 
and  new  impressions. 

II. 

If  one  came  to  the  Exposition  less  for  pleasure  than  for  in- 
struction, it  was  principally  the  Palais  des  Arts  Libdraux  that 
became  the  great  study.  The  French  conception  of  arts  libtraux 
is  wide  enough  at  all  times,  but  was  still  further  enlarged  on  this 
occasion.  There  was  a little  of  everything  in  this  wing.  The 
galleries  that  ran  around  the  large  hall,  which  reached  to  the  very 
roof  of  the  building,  contained  on  the  first  story,  besides  the  re- 
sults obtained  in  photography  and  other  artistic  reproductions,  an 
extensive  and  interesting  collection  of  school  exhibitions.  The 
entire  system  of  French  instruction  might  be  studied  here,  from 
the  elementary  schools  of  the  provinces  to  L’Ecole  des  Beaux 
Arts.  There  were  models  of  the  school  buildings,  with  their 
dormitories  and  dining-room,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  the  result  of 
the  instruction  was  given.  There  was  in  France  no  institute  for 
the  blind,  or  the  deaf  and  dumb,  or  any  similar  institution  that 
had  not  taken  care  to  show  as  much  as  possible  how  it  worked, 
and  what  success  it  obtained.  In  the  same  way  the  rooms  in  the 
lower  story  gave  a detailed  representation  of  the  state  of  the 
French  prisons.  The  French,  who  understand  how  to  write 
scientific  books  for  the  laity,  understand  likewise  how  to  arrange 
an  exhibition  like  this  to  suit  the  masses.  A large  element  of 
curiosity  introduced  in  the  right  place  takes  away  all  dryness. 
Among  the  models  of  buildings  and  the  statistic  tables  there 
were  samples  of  the  works  of  patience  done  by  the  prisoners. 
Madonna  altars,  carved  out  inside  a bottle;  steam  engines  made 
of  sardine  boxes,  or  full-rigged  men  of  war  composed  of  bread 
crumbs;  and  in  another  place  a retrospective  bird’s-eye  view  of 
the  prisons  and  modes  of  punishment  of  past  times,  with  all 
kinds  of  implements  of  torture  to  show  how  great  a progress  in 
humaneness  our  time  has  made.  Other  side  galleries  were  given 
to  exhibitions  from  different  scientific  societies  ; accounts  of 
missions  to  distant  countries,  the  collections  brought  home  by 
them  and  pictures  of  the  types  of  the  respective  places ; to 
cartographical  representations  of  French  soil,  of  the  density  of 
the  population  in  France  ; of  its  mineralogy,  its  climate,  and 
several  other  things  intra  and  extra,  the  boundaries  of  the  re- 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


281 


public,  concerning  our  globe  and  the  entire  universe;  a suite  of 
exhibitions  with  the  most  interesting  concentration  of  study 
material  for  specialists. 

But  the  pride  of  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts  were  the  six  large 
square  halls  in  the  center  of  the  hall  on  either  side  of  the  dome. 
The  standard 
of  the  whole 
e x h i b i tion 
was  to  be 
found  here. 

The  story  of 
the  civiliza- 
tion that  had 
produced  the 
Eiffel  tower 
and  the  ma- 
chinery hall, 
the  industry 
galleries  and 
the  master- 
pieces of  the 
art  rooms, 
was  written 

here.  It  was  done  with  bold  strokes,  but  with  French  esprit 
and  French  talent  for  popularization.  It  commenced  with  the 
very  beginning.  Natural  History,  Anthropology,  and  Eth- 
nography of  humanity  was  written  over  the  entrance  to  the 
first  hall.  The  gigantic  golden  Buddha  from  Nara,  which 
Prince  Cernuseti  had  brought  to  Europe,  kept  watch  outside, 
and  in  the  rotunda  inside  there  was  made  a still  stronger 
appeal  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  public.  The  different 
stages  of  the  prehistoric  man  were  pictured  through  groups  of 
figures  in  life  size,  modeled  after  the  instructions  given  by 
scientific  people.  First  came  the  “ Mammoth  Age.”  The  first 
industrial  workers,  the  flint-stone  cutters,  were  seated  under  an 
immense  old  oak ; this  was  before  there  were  any  dwellings. 
The  form  of  the  cranium,  the  color  of  the  skin,  and  the  whole 
appearance  shows  a non-Arian  type,  nearest  related  to  the  present 
Mongolian.  There  were  cave  dwellers,  making  axes  with  which 


THE  FIRST  DOLMEN-BUILDERS. 


282 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


to  fight  the  bears,  and  who  had  for  their  only  garment  a piece  of 
leather  around  the  loins  and  rings  of  shell  around  the  neck  and 
ankles.  Passing  by  the  Aztecs  one  reached  the  Neolithic  Stone 
Age,  represented  by  the  first  building  of  the  dolmen,  and  another 
group  of  ambulant  iron-founders  from  the  Bronze  Age,  which 
had  a more  complete  although  simple  costume.  Here  the  suite 
ended  in  order  to  draw  a comparison  with  some  negroes  of  our 
day  from  Soudan  at  work  forging. 

In  the  middle  of  the  rotunda  was  a Samoyede  camp,  a model 
after  nature,  with  reindeer  to  draw  the  sleigh,  and  stuffed  seals. 
The  whole  arrangement  was,  perhaps,  a little  too  suggestive  of  a 
wax  hall,  but  experience  shows  that  children  never  learn  the 
letters  as  easily  as  through  their  toy  blocks,  and  the  masses 
have  to  be  treated  like  children.  The  anthropological  part  of 
the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts  met  with  immense  success,  and  has 
been  instructive  to  many  who  formerly  had  no  knowledge  what- 


THE  SAMOYEDE  CAMP. 

ever  of  the  things  they  saw  here.  In  the  gallery  around  the 
rotunda  were  the  scenes  of  more  advanced  stages  of  civilization. 
First  came  a Chinese  work-shop,  with  a crowd  of  the  children  of 
the  Celestial  Empire  busily  fabricating  wares.  After  them  came 
old  Fouk-hi-chi,  a Chinese  a hundred  years  old,  with  wavy  gray 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


283 


hair,  the  inventor  of  the  first  written  letters  ; and  many  other 
great  discoveries,  made  by  this  peculiar  Eastern  people  before 
our  civilization  began,  were  pictured  in  the  same  way.  There 
were  suggestions  of  a compass  and  magnetic  charts  used  by  the 
Chinese  even  before  Abraham’s  time,  and  it  was  shown  how  they 
had  understood  to  print  with  movable  types  more  than  four  hun- 
dred years  before  Guttenberg.  Then  came  the  old  Egyptians, 


EGYPTIAN  WEAVERS. 

who  were  spinning  and  weaving  in  the  way  shown  in  the  pictures 
on  the  pyramids,  and  next  in  the  line  an  Athenian  pottery  and  a 
Gallo-Roman  faience  shop  of  the  year  100  after  Christ.  The  owner 
was  standing  behind  the  counter  showing  his  wares  to  the  noble 
Roman  lady  who  had  shown  him  the  honor  of  letting  her  se- 
dan be  carried  in  under  his  roof.  Last  in  the  row  came  the 
Danish  department.  There  were  models  of  a warrior  and  a 


284 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


typical  northern  woman,  from  the  Bronze  Age.  The  heads 
of  the  figures  were  made  over  craniums  found  in  the  old 
northern  mounds,  the  ornaments  and  weapons  were  genu- 
ine; and  even  the  cloak  of  the  warrior  and  the  woman’s  long, 
richly  folded  draperies  were  a true  imitation  of  materials  of 


AN  ATHENIAN  POTTERY. 


which  fragments,  found  in  different  peat-bogs,  were  exhibited 
in  glass  cases.  The  old  Northern  Museum  of  Copenhagen  had 
filled  all  the  show-cases,  and  to  a certain  degree  the  whole 
anthropological  exhibition  was  concentrated  in  the  little  Danish 
department.  Here  were  the  craniums  and  the  kjokkenmoddings 
of  the  Mammoth  Age,  the  flint  axes  of  the  Reindeer  Age,  an 
incomparable  selection  of  weapons  and  ornaments  from  the; 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


285 


Bronze  Age,  and,  to  complete  it,  the  most  important  works  on, 
and  pictures  of,  ancient  northern  remains.  The  stone  monument 
of  Gorm,  the  old  one  from  Jellinge,  which  was  placed  in  the 
center,  formed,  with  its  abundant  rune  inscriptions,  part  of  the 
story  of  writing;  the  representation  of  this  latter  art  covered  the 
balustrade  and  entrance  to  the  different  anthropological  groups; 
here  were  samples  of  all  the  signs  with  which  people  have 
expressed  their  thoughts  and  told  of  the  events  of  the  day,  from 
the  very  earliest  civilization  down  to  nations  of  the  present  day, 
that  are  still  in  a primitive  state.  There  had  been  done  every- 
thing to  procure  reproductions  of  what  not  only  French,  but  all 
other  museums  possessed  of  eminent  historical  monuments  of 
this  art,  and  the  exhibition  was  almost  complete.  At  each  step 
one  met  with  new  and  interesting  pictures.  In  one  room  were  the 
different  works  in  wood,  stone,  and  iron ; then  came  agriculture ; 
after  that  hunting  and  fishing,  and  finally  mining  and  metallurgy. 
In  another  room  were  musical  instruments,  decorations,  and  cos- 
tumes ; in  still  another,  architecture  and  glyptics ; everything 
was  complete.  Where,  for  instance,  the  story  of  the  light-house 
system  was  given,  commencing  with  the  very  first  train-oil  lamps, 
the  light  of  which  was  reflected  in  a pane  of  plate-glass,  and  all 
the  different  forms  were  represented,  down  to  the  last  perfected 
one,  with  its  endless  combination  of  glass  prisms.  And  even  the 
smallest  specialties  had  a little  territory  where  their  history  was 
explained.  The  visitor  would  find  departments  like  the  one 
given  to  the  history  of  conveyances.  First  came  the  antique 
carts  and  carriages,  then  models  of  all  the  carriages  from  Trianon 
and  the  mail  coaches  of  the  idyllic  times,  when  people  still  made 
trips  around  the  world  in  a sort  of  postchaise,  swinging  on  leather 
straps,  instead  of  being  balanced  on  springs,  and  finally  the  stages 
of  the  revolutionary  times  and  the  vehicles  that  had  brought  the 
great  Louis’s  courtiers  to  the  battle-field  from  which  his  glory 
shone  all  over  the  earth.  Miniature  reproductions  of  boats 
belonging  to  all  periods  and  nations  were  being  tossed  to  and  fro 
on  glass  waves.  The  camel  of  the  desert  was  there,  and  the 
Indian  elephant  with  houses  on  its  back.  Then  came  the  first 
models  of  steamers  and  railroads,  and  one  gradually  reached  the 
period  of  modern  engineers,  with  its  gigantic  viaducts  and 
bridges,  the  immediate  forerunners  of  the  Eiffel  tower.  Under 


286 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


the  dome  was  the  inflated  “ Montgolfi£re,”  surmounted  by  a gal- 
lery, where  the  history  of  the  balloon  might  be  studied  through 
models,  or  at  least  through  the  pictures,  of  which  there  were 
many  hundred. 

The  hall  given  to  theatrical  decorations  and  costumes  was 
likewise  of  interest  to  many  besides  the  dramatic  artists.  In  a 
rotunda  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  were  placed  dioramically  decora- 
tion-maquettes  of  the  principal  works  given  at  the  Opera  during 
the  last  century,  and  also  of  many  pieces  played  at  the  Theatre 
Frangais.  Around  the  diorama  hung  the  pictures  of  the  most 
prominent  authors  and  composers.  There  were  not  only  pictures 
of  the  prominent  actors  and  actresses  in  costume,  but  also  models 
that  not  only  wore  the  costumes  of  their  part,  but  to  which  it 
had  been  attempted  to  impart  their  expression  and  gestures  as 
well  as  possible.  Even  the  exhibition  of  the  musical  instru- 
ments was  so  arranged  that  it  captivated  the  attention  of  the 
masses.  People  who  came  out  of  idle  curiosity  would  linger  in 
many  places  ; if  there  was  nothing  else  to  attract  attention  in 
the  ethnological  collection,  there  were  at  least  the  craniums  of 
the  guillotined,  of  Gambetta,  and  other  notorious  men. 

If  people  did  not  see  anything  else  passing  through  the  ex- 
hibition belonging  to  the  scientific  missions,  they  must  at  least 
have  noticed  the  curious  specimens  of  plants  and  animals  brought 
up  from  the  depths  of  the  sea.  Until  about  twenty  years  ago  it 
was  supposed  that  there  was  no  animal  life  below  a certain  depth. 
It  was  thought  that  the  pressure  of  the  water  and  the  lack  of  air 
rendered  life  impossible,  when  of  a sudden  the  cable  between 
Sardinia  and  Algiers  broke,  and  the  remains  drawn  up  from  a 
depth  of  over  two  thousand  metres  were  covered  with  polypi 
and  mollusks.  Later  several  French  expeditions  were  sent  out 
to  search  these  depths,  and  they  brought  home  collections  of  the 
most  fantastic  aquatic  animals,  that  do  not  seem  at  all  related  to 
any  other  living  thing.  Everywhere  in  the  Palais  des  Arts 
Lib£raux  were  to  be  found  many  of  these  curiosities  for  the  pro- 
fane crowds,  but  the  palace  was  principally  for  those  who  came 
there  with  a true  craving  for  knowledge  and  with  the  qualifica- 
tions for  receiving  it.  They  would  all  find  sufficient  instruction 
in  their  especial  field  in  this  museum  of  museums,  this  temple 
erected  for  the  greatest  modern  power,  the  progress  of  human 
labor  and  civilization. 


III. 


It  was  the  peremptory  duty  of  all  visitors  to  ascend  the  Eiffel 
tower.  The  greatness  of  this  new  wonder  of  the  world  reached 
its  climax  in  the  popularity  it  obtained.  Even  before  the  opening 
of  the  exhibition  representations  of  it  were  sent  out  by  millions 
to  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  every  day  the  number  of  the 
forms  of  the  reproductions  increased.  The  portrait  of  the  giant 
inundated  the  world  in  pen,  pencil,  and  brush,  in  photo  and 
lithography,  in  oil  and  pastel,  on  paper,  canvas,  on  wood  and 
ivory,  on  china,  steel,  and  zinc.  It  was  printed  on  handkerchiefs 
and  caps;  it  was  eaten  in  chocolate  and  marchpane;  formed  into 
cigar  cases  and  hand  bells,  inkstands  and  candlesticks  ; it  dangled 
from  the  gentlemen’s  watchchains  and  was  fastened  in  the  ladies’ 
ears  ; it  stood  in  hundreds  of  forms  in  the  shop-windows,  and 
made  all  idle  hands  busy  in  the  workshops.  A Parisian  business 

287 


288 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


man  who  understands  the  times,  had,  before  the  opening  day, 
made  a contract  with  the  architect  of  the  tower  by  which  he 
received  the  monopoly  to  reproduce  it ; but  the  peddlers^to  whom 
this  would  cut  off  a new  source  of  wealth,  came  near  making  a 
riot.  The  tribunals  had  to  decide  the  question  and  did  so  with 
the  verdict  that  the  tower,  since  it  had  received  subvention  from 
the  state,  had  become  a national  monument,  on  the  reproduction 
of  which  there  could  be  given  no  monopoly.  After  this  the  Eiffel 
tower  mania  knew  no  bounds.  Everything  was  a la  tour  Eiffel , 
from  toilet  tables  and  clocks  to  snuff-boxes,  umbrella  handles, 
scarf  pins,  and  sleeve  buttons.  They  were  made  to  suit  all  prices 
and  all  tastes  ; they  were  sold  on  the  street  corners  under  magni- 
fying  glass  for  two  sous,  and  they  were  built  in  the  provinces 
fifteen  metres  high,  and  containing  little  private  dining-rooms  just 
as  it  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  Iena  bridge,  and  everywhere  on  the 
globe  the  portrait  of  the  giant  was  to  be  seen. 

. . . d Montmartre,  en  Su'ide, 

En  Macddoine,  en  Kamschatka  ; 

Sous  la.  hutte  du  Samoyede, 

Dans  les  sables  du  Sahara. 

How  near  or  how  far  these  portraits  were  from  the  ideal  of 
beauty  of  the  time,  they  nevertheless  all  seemed  to  draw  people 
with  irresistible  sway  to  the  Champ-de-Mars,  to  stand  face  to  face 
with  the  original.  Hours  before  the  trains  reached  the  Paris 
depot,  the  news  that  the  tower  was  in  sight  went  from  compart- 
ment to  compartment.  When  evening  came,  the  light  from  its 
top  could  be  seen  at  fifty-six  miles’  distance.  It  was  visible 
from  almost  every  point  in  the  Seine  capital,  striking  the  eye 
with  its  sharp  outlines,  so  that  even  the  babies  learned  to  know 
it,  and  stammered  “ Tour  Eiffelf  almost  before  “ papa  ” and 
“ mamma.”  If  one  wanted  to  be  dans  le  mouvement,  he  would 
make  the  Eiffel  tower  his  boulevard  ; climb  up  the  winding  stairs 
as  often  as  he  needed  exercise  ; write  exposition  news  for  the 
Figaro  edition,  which  was  printed  in  the  second  story  of  the 
tower,  and  consider  it  the  height  of  comfort  to  take  his  dinner 
up  there  in  Brebant’s  restaurant,  at  a table  with  a view  over  the 
Champ-de-Mars,  with  its  luminous  fountains.  If  one  was  afraid 
of  vertigo  or  wanted  to  keep  the  five  francs  that  it  cost  to  go  up 
in  the  tower,  he  might  go  with  the  elevator  to  the  first  landing 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


289 


place,  and  get  a glass  of  beer  from  the  beautiful  tricolor-decor- 
ated Hebe  in  the  Alsatian  brasserie , but  it  was  necessary  to  have 
been  in  the  Eiffel  tower  if  one  did  not  want  to  be  looked  upon  as 
a phenomenon.  Twenty  thousand  people  on  an  average  visited 

it  daily  during  the 
summer.  They  had 
to  wait  several  hours 
patiently  in  a row 
until  they  could  be 
taken  up  in  the  lifts, 
and  on  Sunday  it  did 
not  seldom  happen 
that  the  administra- 
tion was  obliged  to 
stop  the  admission 
until  some  of  the 
10,000  that  the  tower 
could  hold  at  a time 
had  made  room  for 
their  successors.  Be- 
fore the  exposition 
was  closed,  there  was 
made  so  much  in  this 
this  way  that  the 
money  paid  in  ad- 
vance by  the  share- 
holders could  be  paid 
them  back  to  the  last 
farthing.  The  en- 
thusiasm of  the  visit- 
ors seemed  to  corre- 
spond to  the  height 
of  the  tower.  There 
was,  on  the  second 
story,  in  Figaro's  pa- 
vilion, a visitors’ 
book  in  which  peo- 
ple might  write  the  account  of  their  visit.  Thousands  strove 
here  daily  to  express  their  thoughts  and  unburden  their  hearts, 


THE  TRICOLOR-DRESSED  HEBE  AT  THE  ALSATIAN 
“ BRASSERIE.” 


290 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


and  not  the  mountains  on  the  Rhine,  not  Rigi,  Kulm,  nor 
any  other  place  where  men  have  rested  on  their  wanderings 
to  the  heights,  have,  since  the  beginning  of  time,  seen  such  an 
overflow  of  panegyrics  as  that  which  during  the  six  summer 
months  was  poured  out  in  the  Eiffel  tower  protocol.  It  was 
not  even  large  enough  to  contain  them  all ; they  could  be 
found  on  every  railing  and  iron  bar  up  to  the  very  top.  Those 
that  were  not  accustomed  to  concentrate  and  express  their  feel- 
ings simply  scratched  their  names  and  that  of  their  beloved  one 
in  a heart  pierced  by  an  arrow,  but  those  that  had  greater 
literary  pretensions  sang  many  varied  hymns  of  glory  to  the 
praise  of  this  new  wonder  and  to  the  glorification  of  the  city  that 
had  erected  it.  For  people  who  had  traveled  in  the  mountains 
this  climbing  of  the  Eiffel  tower  created  no  especial  excitement, 
and  the  view  even  from  the  third  landing  did  not  quite  come  up 
to  the  pictures  of  one’s  imagination  or  those  described  by  the 
chroniqueurs.  It  was  a bird’s-eye  view  of  Paris,  with  smaller 
houses  and  a wider  horizon  than  one  had  obtained  from  the 
different  other  towers  in  Paris. 

In  overpowering  greatness  the  view  could  not  at  all  be  com- 
pared to  the  one  the  tourist  has  from  the  upper  Rigi  terrace  in 
the  morning,  when  the  fog  lifts,  and  one  landscape,  one  church 
tower,  and  lake  appears  after  the  other ; and  as  to  Paris,  it  looks 
much  more  beautiful  from  the  heights  at  St.  Cloud.  Even  the 
ascension  was  not  very  exciting.  In  the  first  days  of  the  tower, 
when  one  had  to  climb  up  to  the  first,  second,  and  third  story  by 
the  winding  stairs  that  grew  narrower  and  narrower,  when  the 
ramp  was  not  yet  covered,  and  one  could  see  the  whole  scaffold 
of  the  tower  and  at  every  turn  seemed  to  be  stepping  out  into 
the  empty  space,  then  even  the  man  who  was  least  prone  to  diz- 
ziness could  hardly  reach  the  top  without  feeling  dread  creep  all 
over  him.  But  since  the  lifts  have  come,  these  closed  compart- 
ments that  can  accommodate  fifty  travelers  at  a time,  not  only  all 
danger  has  disappeared,  but  every  illusion  of  danger  is  destroyed. 
On  the  third  terrace  there  is  not  only  an  iron  parapet,  so  high 
that  one  can  only  just  look  over  it,  but  the  whole  terrace  is  closed 
like  a glass  veranda.  Everywhere  in  the  Eiffel  tower  where 
visitors  are  admitted,  they  are  on  as  firm  a ground  as  on  the 
Ghamp-de-Mars  itself,  and  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  get  rid 


ON  THE  FIRST  STORY  OF  THE  EIFFEL  TOWER, 

291 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


299 

of  this  feeling  of  absolute  security.  The  ascension  is,  in  this 
way,  almost  as  commonplace  as  that  of  any  other  tower,  and  it 
has  not  happened  to  a single  person  out  of  the  six  million  visitors 
to  faint  from  vertigo  or  from  any  other  overpowering  impression. 

The  life  in  the  tower  had,  after  all,  many  peculiarities.  Beside 
the  overfilled  restaurants  and  cafes  there  were  entire  streets  made 
up  of  all  kinds  of  little  booths.  Women  selling  cigarettes,  men 
renting  opera-glasses  and  selling  souvenirs,  and  curiosity  dealers 
had  installed  themselves  in  dense  crowds  among  the  iron  bars 
and  stairs  near  the  lifts  that  were  forever  moving  up  and  down, 
and  whose  chains  moved  with  a dull  and  regular  sound  like  the 
noise  of  a machine.  It  was  like  a city  hanging  in  the  rigging  of 
an  immense  steamer.  The  wind  gusts  came  fresh  and  sharp  like 
the  sea  breeze ; one  might  take  the  sky,  seen  through  the  iron  bars, 
for  the  perspective  of  the  endless  ocean.  There  were  always 
crowds  waiting  outside  the  first  and  second  story  lifts  that  went 
higher  up,  and  the  cosmopolitan  nature  of  the  Exposition  was 
nowhere  as  striking  as  here ; people  of  all  colors  and  costumes, 
producing  with  their  different  languages  a confusion  greater  than 
Babel,  pressed  by  each  other  on  the  narrow  stairs ; it  was  as  if 
the  whole  world  had  come  and  stood  there,  with  beating  heart, 
anxious  to  ascend  toward  the  sky.  But  the  deepest  impression 
of  a visit  in  the  tower  was  the  secure  feeling  when  once  more  one 
stood  at  its  foot  under  the  large  arches.  Its  solidity  was  more 
imposing  than  its  height  had  been.  One  had,  at  the  first  sight 
of  the  giant,  been  surprised  that  three  hundred  metres  were  not 
more,  but  was  now  surprised  that  it  stood  there,  so  immovably 
firm  in  spite  of  its  airy  lightness,  that  made  it  look  like  a toy. 
But  whether  one  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  iron  has  ten  times 
as  great  a power  of  resistance  as  wood  of  an  equal  surface,  and 
twenty  times  greater  than  stone,  there  was  not  a moment’s  doubt 
but  that  it  would  resist  all  storms,  and  one  willingly  trusted  it 
with  the  dearest  he  possessed.  This  security  opened  wider 
horizons  than  those  obtained  from  the  top  of  the  tower.  People 
understood  what  consequences  this  would  have,  and  that  it  was 
a monument  in  the  history  of  human  development  which  was 
standing  there,  and  that  this  was  the  true  greatness  of  it,  and 
that  which  made  the  attraction  of  the  Eiffel  tower  so  irresistible 
for  all. 


IV. 


Whatever  it  was  that  at- 
tracted people,  the  concourse 
increased  continually  during  the 
six  months.  The  railroads  ex- 
perienced, early  in  November, 
more  trouble  in  accommodating 
the  endless  crowds  of  visitors 
than  they  had  even  during  the 
summer  vacation.  From  an 
average  of  one  hundred  thou- 
sand people  a day,  the  normal 
number,  in  October,  became 
two  hundred  thou- 
sand, and  during  the 
last  week  of  the  Ex- 
position this  number 
was  surpassed,  even 
when  it  rained  cats 
and  dogs.  The  final 
result  was  that  when 
everybody  had  real- 
ized the  extent  of  the 
success,  there  came 
even  more  than  the 
twenty- five  million 
guests  that  Paris  had 
counted  on  ; and,  including  the 
free  tickets  and  cards  of  ad- 
mission sent,  the  Exposition 
had,  during  its  six  months’ 
existence/thirty  million  visit- 
ors. The  middle  classes  of  Paris  formed  a very  essential  part 
of  these  masses.  The  Exposition  soon  became  as  popular  as 


293 


294 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


it  was  chic ; the  country  trips,  that  all  through  the  summer 
are  so  great  a part  of  a Parisian’s  life,  were  changed.  The 
exposition  took  the  place  of  the  little  dinners  on  the  Seine 
bank  at  Asni&res;  of  the  dusty  inns  of  the  banlieue  ; and  first 
of  all,  of  the  merry-go-round  trips  on  Sunday,  without  which 
a Parisian  generally  thinks  his  life  wasted.  All  the  spare  money 
was  used  for  trips  to  the  Champ-de-Mars,  and  the  poor  man  would 
pawn  even  his  bedclothes,  that  he  might  visit  the  fairy  land  out 
there  at  least  once.  These  immigrations  to  the  Exposition  were, 
on  great  fete  days,  a very  unique  sight.  To  prevent  overcrowding, 
there  was  asked  ten  or  at  least  five  francs  admission  to  these  fetes. 
But  as  the  prices  were  only  raised  during  the  evening,  and  the 
people  who  had  come  in  during  the  day  could  not  very  well  be 
turned  out,  those  that  did  not  have  much  gold  to  dispose  of  only 
needed  to  come  before  five  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  fete  for 
one  ticket.  Immediately  after  lunch,  about  two  o’clock,  one 
might  seethe  entire  city,  dressed  up  for  the  occasion,  walking  to- 
ward the  avenues  that  led  to  the  Exposition. 

The  fear  of  having  to  enjoy  all  this  magnificence  on  an  empty 
stomach  was  no  cloud  on  the  heavens  of  their  expectations.  The 
Parisians  soon  realized  that  they  might  get  rid  of  a great  deal 
more  money  than  was  strictly  advisable  in  the  restaurants  on 
the  Champ-de-Mars,  and  that  on  great  occasions  even  he  who 
had  his  pocket  full  of  gold  might  be  obliged  to  go  hungry. 
They  arranged  matters  accordingly,  and  brought  with  them,  as 
they  would  to  any  other  picnic,  what  they  needed  to  sustain  life. 
They  chose  a shaded  place  in  the  beautiful  park,  where  they 
could  dine ; sat  down  on  the  grass,  used  the  newspapers  for  nap- 
kins and  the  leaves  of  the  trees  for  plates,  and  banqueted  in  high 
spirits  in  the  dust  and  the  crowds,  as  they  would  have  done  in 
the  depths  of  the  woods.  Parisians  have  an  especial  talent  for 
contenting  themselves  anywhere  and  taking  life  as  it  is.  When 
the  contents  of  the  basket  had  been  consumed,  they  made  their 
way  toward  evening  to  the  “ font  nines  lumineusesf  in  the  middle 
of  the  park.  In  spite  of  the  written  interdiction  they  sat  down 
on  the  lawn,  and  when  seen  from  a distance  this  center  part  of  the 
park  looked  like  a sea  of  human  heads.  They  sat  so  near  together 
on  the  grass  borders  along  the  alleys  that  there  was  not  a single 
grass  blade  to  be  seen,  and  even  to  the  corners  of  the  park,  where 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


395 


there  was  no  possibility  of  getting  the  least  glimpse  of  the  foun- 
tains, this  dense  grasshopper  swarm  of  human  beings  was  spread- 
ing. They  sat  on  the  pedestals  in  the  sculpture  hall ; every  step 


THE  “ FONTAINES  LUMINEUSES.” 


that  led  from  the  Galerie  de  Trente  Mitres  up  to  the  first  floor  of 
the  machine  hall  was  transformed  into  a bench,  and,  tired  of  having 
tramped  around  all  day  long,  people  sat  down  on  the  floor  in  the 


296 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


center  hall,  in  long  rows,  looking  out  at  the  lamps  that  were  being 
lighted  all  over  the  place.  The  Eiffel  tower  stood  in  the  center, 
sharply  defined  against  the  dark  evening  sky.  All  along  its  archi- 
tectural outlines  were  drawn  millions  of  little  gaslights  under  white 
shades,  and  from  the  top  shone,  like  a new  Sirius  in  the  heavens, 
only  brighter  than  the  old  one,  an  electric  sun,  changing  some- 
times with  the  reflectors  that  sent  out  its  light  to  a distance  of 
fifty-six  miles.  Seen  in  this  costume,  with  its  dark  lines  dimly 
visible  among  the  gas  flames,  it  looked,  for  the  first  time,  the 
gigantic  structure  it  really  was.  But  suddenly  a reddish  mist 
arises  and  lingers  for  some  seconds,  and  then  the  Bengal  lights 
shine  on  all  terraces,  even  on  the  pavilion  three  hundred  metres 
high,  and  a sight  more  beautiful  than  any  ever  witnessed  by 
human  eyes  is  revealed.  The  tower  stands  in  the  darkness, 
enveloped  in  red  flames  to  the  very  top.  On  the  Trocadero 
heights  the  palace  has  been  lit,  all  its  towers  are  covered  with  rows 
of  golden  lamps,  and  chandeliers  with  thousands  of  lights  hanging 
in  the  arches.  The  park  is  transformed  into  an  Aladdin’s  garden, 
where  many  thousand-colored  balloons  hang  like  fruits  from  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  where  the  shrubberies  are  filled  with 
large  magnolia  blossoms,  with  filaments  of  electric  light.  The 
statues  of  the  domes  carry  electric  torches,  the  walls  of  the 
foreign  buildings  shine  as  if  covered  with  rubies,  emeralds,  and 
topazes,  and  this  fairy  land  lies  there  in  the  surrounding  darkness 
of  the  night,  like  a vision  framed  by  the  arch  under  the  first 
gallery  of  the  tower. 

Down  on  the  Seine  there  is  a Venetian  fete , under  the 
bridges  that  are  outlined  with  gas-festoons  ; along  the  banks, 
overhung  with  illumination  balloons,  glide  flotilla  after  flotilla  of 
boats,  one  more  magnificent  than  the  other,  while  the  musicians 
seated  in  them  play  the  “ Marseillaise,”  and  the  people  chime  in. 
In  the  center  of  the  Champ-de-Mars  over  the  fountain  that 
throws  its  water-columns  toward  the  central  dome,  whose  cupola 
resembles  pure  gold  in  the  light,  fire-crackers  and  rockets  are 
sent  up  that  shoot  through  the  air  and  seem  to  pour  down  over 
this  fairy-land.  A burst  of  enthusiasm  from  the  crowds  an- 
nounces that  the  crowning  performance  of  the  evening  has  com- 
menced ; the  luminous  fountains  are  sending  out  multicolored 
light.  It  is  for  this  that  they  have  not  spared  any  sacrifice  or 


CHIPS  HERE  AND  THERE. 


297 


trouble  ; for  this  that  they  have  paid  their  ten  tickets,  if  neces- 
sary. To  the  attraction  that  the  “great  waters  ” always  have 
had  for  Parisians,  has  been  added  a new  and  piquant  fea- 
ture, and  the  luminous  fountains  exercised  all  summer  long  a 
power  of  attraction  that  was  hardly  less  than  that  of  the  Eiffel 
tower. 

The  fountain  was  beautiful  in  itself.  It  consisted  of  three 
main  parts:  the  upper  basin  with  a group  of  allegorical  figures, 
naiad  and  dolphins ; a stream  forty  metres  long,  bordered  by  metal 
reeds,  and  finally  the  lower  basin  in  front  of  the  three  domes. 
The  water  fell  from  the  horn  of  plenty  held  by  the  naiads,  and 
from  the  mouth  of  the  dolphins,  in  foaming  cascades  into  the  upper 
basin,  and  flowed  down  the  terraces.  Fourteen  water-columns 
sprang  from  the  reeds,  and  from  the  lower  basin  the  main  shoot 
was  sent  up  surrounded  by  ten  water-rockets.  The  effect  was  fine 
even  when  forty-eight  shoots  were  sent  up  at  once,  but  it  was  over- 
powering when  the  order  was  given  to  send  the  light  into  these 
water-columns  through  glass  prisms,  and  the  result  of  this  inven- 
tion was  an  unequaled  water-fireworks.  Even  when  there  was 
no  illumination  fete , the  luminous  fountains  were  there  every 
evening  to  charm  the  public.  They  commenced  spouting  at 
nine  o’clock  and  continued  through  a whole  hour,  with  a few 
intervals,  with  an  unending  kaleidoscopic  change  of  effect.  First 
came  the  main  shoot  from  the  lower  basin,  and  lifted  itself,  look- 
ing like  transparent  sulphur;  the  dust  that  fell  from  it  irisated 
in  a glory  of  red  and  green,  and  at  the  same  time  the  jets  were 
sent  out  from  the  reeds,  playing  in  all  the  different  colors. 
From  the  horns  of  plenty  and  the  mouths  of  the  dolphins  seemed 
to  flow  a stream  of  precious  stones,  and  the  water  in  the  basin  had 
a thousand  colored  reflections.  Sometimes  scarlet  was  the  pre- 
vailing color ; then  softer  shades  began  to  appear  ; violet  would 
conquer  for  a minute  and  change  suddenly,  when  the  jet  in  the 
octagonal  basin  shot  out  grass-green  or  azure,  while  the  smaller 
jets  shone  in  mother  of  pearl  and  silver  shades.  No  colorist  of 
the  greatest  painting  schools  has  had  more  colors  on  his  palette 
than  those  which  the  inventor  of  these  fountains  displayed,  and 
few  have  understood  how  to  blend  them  into  as  dazzling  a 
whole.  People  were  every  evening  intoxicated  with  this  magnifi- 
cence, and  when  the  rest  of  the  illumination  was  added,  it  was 


2q8 


PARIS  OF  TO-DAY. 


indeed  a sight  that  might  move  even  the  most  blasts  to  enthu- 
siasm. This  fairy  vision  was  as  wonderful  in  its  way  as  every- 
thing else  that  belonged  to  the  Exposition,  and  it  was  quite 
natural  that  this  should  be  the  last  thing  that  people  took  leave 
of,  when  the  summer  finally,  on  the  evening  of  its  closing  fete, 
reached  a climax  worthy  of  this  never-to-be-forgotten  time. 


THE  END. 


mMm 


